


How Far Is Away

by kyrene



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, blindness (in the dream), non-explicit mentions of torture (also in the dream)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:40:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 62,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kyrene/pseuds/kyrene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes the things that happen in dreams carry over into waking. But what about when something carries over into the continued dreaming? Blackness falls and a forger is reft of his ability to work in the dream-share.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TooRational](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooRational/gifts).



> Happy Xmas, Happy New Year's, and Happy Birthday to the wonderful, amazing, effervescent TooRational!! Thank you for being my #1 cheerleader and an awesome friend!! I wish you all the best, I'll continue supplying you with Arthur/Eames, and I hope that you like this gift-fic (of which there is more to come, of course)!! *a millionty-hugs!*

Arthur had always trusted too easily, that was his problem. Even people he damned well knew better than to trust, like a certain extractor who kept assuring him things were fine even as the jobs kept falling apart around his ears. Even people who had _told_ him in plain words that they were not trustworthy.

"People" in this latter case meaning _Eames_ , of course. Eames, who had never pretended to be anything other than what he was, but who had somehow wriggled his way under all of Arthur's defenses despite this fact.

Arthur hadn't done it on purpose, but then to be fair neither had Eames. It had just sort of... happened.

Only that wasn't true either, and Arthur was honest enough to admit this fact to himself.

It had all started after the Fischer job. Or, well, that had been the culmination of the slow dance they'd been doing around one another for years before then. And now it had been nearly a year since the first time they had tumbled into bed together. Nearly a year's worth of experience with one another, and Arthur knew Eames better than he had ever thought that he would. Or, he had _thought_ he'd known Eames.... And maybe that had been his first mistake, even before he had found himself trusting the man.

It had always been Arthur pushing, he knew. Eames had never been to sort to woo, to wheedle, and he didn't respond well to such treatment in turn. No, every time Arthur had wanted something more than what they'd had, he'd plainly stated his desire. He didn't ask, but he did allow Eames to refuse. Roughly half the time Eames did, but the other half of it he did not.

In fact, the first time Eames had spent the entire night in Arthur's bed, it had been because Arthur had tied him to the bedpost and fallen asleep before he could untie him. Arthur still maintained that no matter what he said, if he'd really wanted to Eames could have easily freed himself. But he hadn't. And then the next night, when Arthur had simply told Eames to stay, he had stayed. Arthur was still more than a little surprised by this.

That was the way it had gone. They neither of them had ever seemed completely certain of what they were doing, but it had flowed fluidly enough for all that. Every once in a while Arthur pushed for more, and sometimes Eames ran, but usually he simply gave in. Arthur had thought that they'd reached something of a mutual understanding, even if they weren't exactly able to categorize what it was they understood.

This had been going on for almost a year, ever since a crazy week they'd spent in one another's company after the Fischer job, after performing an inception, waiting to see if it had worked, then celebrating the fact that it had. Almost a year of time spent with one another, learning one another, becoming closer, at least physically, but Arthur had also thought emotionally as well.

So it had come as something of a surprise to Arthur when Eames had sold him out. Then he gave it some thought -- once he'd taken care of the thugs after his hide -- and he was more surprised that he had been surprised.

The thing was, Eames had _told_ Arthur more than once that he was not trustworthy. The fact that Arthur had thought he'd known the man better than Eames knew himself... well, he was undecided as to whether that had been arrogance or merely stupidity on his part. Probably equal shares of both, and either way, he ought to have known better.

None of this made him less angry at Eames, of course. Whether the man could be trusted or not, _he had sold Arthur out_. Arthur could forgive a lot of bad behaviors, but he wasn't so sure he could forgive that one. It had very nearly gotten him killed. Well, okay, maybe not really. But it might have done, if he hadn't been as good as he was.

There _was_ that. Because Eames knew perfectly well how good Arthur was. It would be just like him to sell Arthur out with the full anticipation that Arthur would get himself out of the hot water....

That didn't make it forgivable, however. Especially since the least he could have done would have been to split whatever money he'd gotten for the deal. Also, an apology would have been nice.

Arthur had no idea what he was going to do the next time he saw Eames. After all, he couldn't _prove_ that it had been Eames who had told the goons from Blaidd Drwg Corporation where he was.... But only two people had known where he was headed after his last job and one of those was Arthur himself. Which only left one possibility remaining.

It would have been nice if he could have given Eames the benefit of the doubt, but the facts pretty much spoke for themselves. Arthur couldn't be _completely_ sure, he supposed. But he was damned close to it.

He still hadn't decided what he was going to do about the whole thing when Ariadne called him into a job she was pulling in Paris, and he still hadn't decided after she told him they needed a forger which meant that she had called Eames as well. He was a little surprised that she been able to get a _hold_ of Eames, who was notoriously difficult to find, but he kind of thought that everyone involved in the Fischer job had developed something of a soft spot for the young architect. Except for maybe Yusuf. And Yusuf was something of a cipher, at least as far as Arthur was concerned, so maybe him too.

Arthur couldn't let Ariadne do the job without him, though, whether or not Eames was involved. So he showed up to the hotel suite that Ariadne wanted to work out of, and he waited for Eames to turn up like the proverbial bad penny, wondering how he was going to react to seeing the forger again.

Then it happened and it was a little anticlimactic. But that was the way they did this thing, wasn't it? Neither one making a big fuss about any events or interactions because to do so risked showing weakness. And it wasn't as though Arthur felt he could come out an accuse Eames when he had absolutely no proof.

Eames looked worn, exhausted, and deeply troubled if Arthur was reading the starkly etched lines in his forehead correctly. But then, he thought, abject guilt could do that to a man.

It made Arthur feel a little better, thinking that Eames might feel guilt for what he had done. Not that he was anywhere near forgiving the man. But it was nice that there was the possibility that Eames regretted what he had done.

And so the two of them settled down to work with Ariadne without much more than a subdued greeting, and just like that, it appeared that things were going to be all right. Or if not "all right" then at least swept under the rug.

Not that Arthur would be inviting Eames to his hotel room any time soon. He had that much self respect.

Eames seemed distant and distracted during Ariadne's briefing, and Arthur maintained his cool politeness, because there was work and there was personal, and now was the time for the former. Ariadne either didn't notice or -- more likely -- was determined that it not disrupt her job. She was a consummate little professional, which made her a delight to work with and indicated that she had learned more from Arthur than Cobb during her whirlwind introduction to the art of extraction and inception.

It wasn't until they were breaking for lunch and Ariadne was indulging in some recent dream-share gossip -- not that she was really deeply involved, but she was curious about the little she did know -- that the subject foremost in Arthur's mind came into the conversation.

"I heard that Blaidd Drwg Corporation targeted you recently, Arthur," she said, her level brows dipping toward one another in a little frown. "You managed that okay?"

"I wouldn't have come here if I hadn't," he replied mildly. "I wouldn't put you in danger like that."

Eames had gone on alert as soon as Ariadne had mentioned Blaidd Drwg Corporation. "They're dead?" he asked, and there was something harsh and raw in his tone that Arthur couldn't quite read.

"Of course," he answered coolly. As if he would be sitting here if they weren't. Eames had to know that, as well as he knew Arthur.

"Good," Eames spat out, and the fervency of it as well as the deep darkness behind his eyes gave Arthur a moment's pause. There was regret and there was guilt, but this... this was something else entirely.

Before he could follow up on this train of thought, however, he was distracted by the fact that Ariadne looked more than a little pale and shaken, and it came to him abruptly that he hadn't actually ever talked about some of the seamier aspects of his career in front of her before. He shot Eames a quick glare, since he was the one who had asked whether Arthur had killed the assholes from Blaidd Drwg Corporation, but Eames was staring into the distance, blinking rapidly, fingers moving over his ever-present poker chip, and Arthur had to turn his attention to doing some damage control before he could do anything else.

"I wasn't _scared_ ," Ariadne informed him later, toward the end of their conversation, her voice steady and color coming back to her cheeks, mild indignation flashing in her eyes. "Just a little... rattled."

"Sorry," Arthur said for the third time, even though he generally made it a rule that he not apologize for anything he didn't actually feel sorry for. Well, he was sorry that Ariadne was upset, even if he wasn't sorry for dealing with the men who had been trying to capture or kill him in such a permanent manner.

The illegal side of the dream-share was a cut-throat business, sometimes literally, and Ariadne needed to gain an awareness of this before she out and out experienced it. It was too bad that she now knew that Arthur had literal blood on his hands, but if she had ever given it a moment's thought she probably could have guessed as much already.

While Arthur and Ariadne had been talking, Eames had escaped into the bathroom. Arthur had absolutely no desire to pursue him, or even to talk to him once he emerged.

"I think I'm going to go out and follow up on something I looked into before I got here," he informed Ariadne, tossing his empty lunch containers in the trash. He noted that Eames had barely touched his own food, but resolutely ignored that information. It wasn't any of his business, after all. Eames had made sure of that when he had sold Arthur out to Blaidd Drwg Corporation. "I may not be back until late, so leave whenever you like."

Ariadne nodded, not seeming to mind that Arthur was behaving as though _he_ was in charge of this job, even though it was technically hers. She was already reaching for her drawing pad anyway, and had already dismissed his presence. She'd gotten some sketches done before the two men had arrived, and while it was nice to see her enthusiasm, Arthur thought that she was jumping the gun a bit. He had a lot more research to do into their mark before they could _really_ know how they were going to handle this extraction.

Still, it gave her something constructive to do, which was more than Arthur could say for Eames. And there he was, thinking about Eames again! He really needed to cut that out.

"Later," he promised, with little intention of seeing Ariadne until the next day, and she gave him a vague wave as he left.

Arthur spent the rest of the day doing his absolute best not to think about Eames at all. For the most part he was successful, and yet the mental image of those dark, bruised looking eyes flashing with some dark, powerful emotion stayed with him far longer than he would have liked.

***

It was nice working with Arthur again, Ariadne thought. It was... disconcerting, working with Eames. If only because he wasn't the way she remembered.

Not that she felt she had any great insights into his character or anything. They'd worked together on the Fischer job, but that had been it. Even though there was something strangely intimate about performing inception together, about having gone three layers down in the dream-share, three levels into their collective subconscious, Ariadne didn't pretend that she knew anything about Eames other than the fact that he was a brilliant forger who could kick some serious ass when required; in the dream-share, and she suspected in reality as well.

But there was something different, now. Something _off_ , and she knew that Arthur felt it too.

She was aware that Arthur was pissed at Eames for some reason. There was no mistaking the thin-pressed lips and sidelong glares. The thing was, Eames didn't seem to be noticing. Because Eames was... well, distracted wasn't the right word. Lost? Somewhere, somehow, he had gotten lost inside his own head, and Ariadne had actually had to poke him a couple of times to get him to pay attention to her. That wasn't normal for him, and that much Ariadne _was_ sure of, from their work together on the Fischer job.

She wanted to talk to Arthur about it, but she was a little afraid to. It was all too obvious that Arthur was angry at Eames, and she didn't want to get in the middle of _that_. Bad enough that she was stuck working with the two of them now. But she'd needed the best, and even if they hadn't all three of them worked together, successfully, on the Fischer job, Ariadne had enough feelers out in the dream-share world that she knew they _were_ the best in their respective fields. The absolute best.

It gave her a certain thrill, not only working with the best, but knowing that they considered her to be the best too. Or at least worthy of their time, worthy of working with in turn. She liked to think she was one of the best architects, even if no one had ever said those exact words, and the fact that Arthur and Eames were here seemed to hold up that idea.

They had both hesitated before saying yes, it was true. But Ariadne was a smart girl. The pause each man had given hadn't been due to _her_ involvement, she was certain of it. She'd thought at first that Eames' reluctance had been because it was her offering the job, but now she was sure that it was somehow a symptom of whatever it was that was wrong with him. And Arthur, well, he had been ready enough to help until she had mentioned Eames, at which point he'd closed off a little. So evidently he'd been pissed at Eames before the two of them had arrived in Paris.

Ariadne found herself wondering, as always, about the tension between Arthur and Eames. She'd have been tempted to call it unresolved sexual tension, only she was pretty sure they'd "resolved" it already. Rumor in the dream-share was that they'd been sleeping together for years, and while she really doubted it had actually happened until after the Fischer job, she thought that it had happened _immediately_ after the Fischer job. And that had been nearly a year ago.

A year might not be a long time for a relationship, but it definitely wasn't a short time either. Especially for men like Arthur and Eames.

Something had gone sour, though, that much was obvious. Ariadne figured it was recent, or she'd have heard something. She wondered whether it was business or personal, and she really wanted to _know_ , even though it was none of her concern. It was even more intriguing, she thought, since they were both willing and able enough to work on the job together and remain civil, despite the obvious rift between them.... But she had no real way of finding out. Not without asking one of them, and she wasn't about to do that. She doubted she'd get an honest answer if she did, anyway.

It was frustrating, but not as frustrating as dealing with Eames. Oh, he was trying, she could tell. He really was. But there was something _wrong_ , something that was eating away at him, and she got the distinct impression that even Arthur had no idea what it was. So she didn't think it had anything to do with their lover's spat.... Or, at least, not directly. Not unless Eames was taking it a lot harder than Arthur was. Arthur looked pissed, but Eames seemed... _devastated_.

The fact that they were being civil made her think that it was definitely not related to their relationship, whatever said relationship might be. But there was something going on, and it involved them both, somehow or other.

Ariadne found her curiosity was so piqued that she even gave brief consideration to doing some discrete questioning of the two men's projections the next time they went under. But, Lord, that way lay potential disaster. Arthur and Eames were professionals in the world of dream-sharing, and even if any projection thus questioned didn't shoot Ariadne in the face for asking, even if she got an honest answer, she doubted she had much chance of getting away with it. Best case scenario, Arthur and Eames would refuse to work with her anymore, and worst case, her name would be forever ruined and _no one_ would be willing to work with her. And since she didn't own a PASIV device of her own, that would mean no more lucid dreaming. She wasn't ready to risk that.

Spending a lot of time in someone else's dreams, in their head, meant developing a certain amount of trust, Ariadne mused. Not so much trust in the individual, but trust that they knew better than to risk their good name by messing around too much. And Ariadne wasn't going to be the gauche newbie who violated all of the tentative understandings between those who worked in the dream-share. She'd already pulled that one on Cobb, and he'd been rightfully pissed. Even though someone really _had_ needed to dig up the secret he'd been hiding, that didn't mean that Ariadne hadn't been wrong to do what she'd done, and she got that now.

So she stewed and she kept a sharp eye on her colleagues, and she was no closer to the truth by the time they were supposed to go under for the first time in this job than she had been when it had begun. It was frustrating, but she didn't see any way around it.

As long as the two men were able to do the job, she had no right to know what else was going on with them.

Even though it was killing her, not knowing.

***

Eames had been dreading the first time they went into the dream-share; himself, Arthur, and Ariadne. He hadn't been under since... well. But it wasn't as though he could put it off, seeing as dreaming was the entire objective of the job they were working together. Without the dream-share, without the _dream_ , there would be no job, and without the job there was no reason for him to be here.

Which he still wasn't sure was a great idea, but since he was already committed, he could only try to go forward.

Arthur was the dreamer, crafting the scenario that Ariadne, as their architect, had created for him. Ariadne was standing in for the subject, the mark, on this run-through. And Eames... well, he was sort of playing spectator. Which meant that in theory he might have been able to beg off. But he needed to know this dream as well as the others did and so he couldn't have done so without raising some serious suspicions.

He knew what a complete disaster this was the moment he came to in the dream-share. And the low-lying dread he'd been feeling ever since accepting the job ballooned into complete and utter panic.

It wasn't easy for a man to find a way to kill himself when he couldn't see and his hands were virtually useless, but Eames managed it. Praying the whole while that Ariadne and Arthur were nowhere near him, that they couldn't see him, that they hadn't seen or heard _anything_.

Drawing in great gulps of breath, he stared at the ceiling once he was back in the waking world. He was afraid to blink, convulsively clenching a hand that worked now, that _worked_ dammit, around his totem in his pocket. The fact that both of his hands were shaking and he couldn't control his breathing, that his eyes were drying out in his stubborn refusal to stop staring... well, he tried to ignore these things. Because he was awake, he was okay, he was safe and sane and alive....

Of course, he couldn't remain like this. Both of his colleagues were still under, and they'd be wondering where he was. If they weren't busy perfecting the architecture of the dream, that was.

Either way, Eames needed to get back down there. He couldn't work on this job if he couldn't enter the dream-share. That was really all there was to the matter.

Swallowing tightly, his hands still trembling, reminding himself resolutely that he _could_ see, that his body was whole and unharmed, Eames depressed the plunger on the PASIV device a second time.

Only to enter the dream in complete darkness yet again.

At least this time he felt physically whole. His hands were unbroken, the flesh of his arms was still there, and when he raised his hands to press them against his face, there was no blood, his eyes resting round and full beneath the lids, where they belonged. There were no bleeding, empty sockets.

Taking a deep breath, Eames told himself that maybe... maybe he was just in a room with no illumination. It was unlikely, in the dream Ariadne and Arthur had set up, but not impossible.

He could feel that he was blinking rapidly as he fumbled his way to a wall and struggled to find a door, a window, anything. He was terrified that Arthur and Ariadne would catch him at this, since he was pretty sure that there was plenty of light around him, that he just couldn't see it. But he needed to know for sure.

Besides, if either of his colleagues had seen him right now, surely they'd have spoken up, asked him what was wrong, wouldn't they have? Arthur was pissed at him for something -- Eames didn't know what it was and he was struggling too hard with his own demons to give it any real attention, even though he'd otherwise have been wildly curious -- but he wasn't a complete arsehole. The opposite of that, in fact. And Ariadne certainly wouldn't have left Eames foundering like this without saying anything, darling girl that she was.

Eames had no idea where he was, but he suspected he was inside a shop or possibly a storeroom. There was a feeling of openness all around him and shelving under his hands when he finally reached something he could touch. Which gave him hope that maybe he _could_ see, if only he could find a light switch or an exit. Perhaps he was in a warehouse with no windows... and the lights were out....

It seemed to take him forever, banging into walls and shelving, his hands moving over something that felt like copper tubing and a whole lot of dusty boxes, but eventually he came across a switch. He toggled it up and down a few times before he was forced to admit that no lights were going to magically come on.

But the switch might just be broken, he told himself, or there might not be any power. It wasn't time to give up yet. Even though he was sweating bullets and his hands were shaking as he felt along the cold metal walls.

This faint hope was decisively dashed when he finally fumbled his way to a door and opened it. He could feel the sun warm on his face, and had to admit to the truth. His eyes were definitely open, there _was_ sun, and yet he could see nothing. Absolutely nothing, no matter how hard he willed himself to see, no matter how many times he told himself that his eyes were whole and functional in the waking world.

This time it was even more difficult finding a way to kill himself, but it would have been harder to stay within the dream in that condition and wait for the timer to count down to zero.

Of course, he couldn't leave it at that, even though he felt so ill from stress and overwhelming memories that he almost needed to run to the bathroom and vomit. Because he had a job to do and Arthur and Ariadne were depending on him. Maybe he wasn't needed during this first practice run, but he'd be essential later during the job. And it was essential that he be able to _see_ in the dream-share.

Anyway, he had always been too stubborn for his own good.

Drawing in a deep breath, Eames depressed the plunger for the Somnacin one more time. This time he kept an image in his head rather than a thought. He already knew that he wasn't blind. What he really needed, as he entered the dream for the third time, was a solid weight at the small of his back, tucked into his waistband.

"It's about time," he heard Arthur say in an impatient tone as he came to awareness. Still completely in the dark.

"Eames, are you okay?" Ariadne asked a moment later, and they were both here, and they could obviously see him. And that tore it.

Without responding, because he couldn't tell either of them what was really going on, Eames plucked the gun out of his waistband and shot himself in the head.


	2. Chapter 2

"The fuck--?!" Arthur blurted inelegantly, grabbing Ariadne and yanking her abruptly out of the way, behind him as Eames' blood and brains spattered and his body hit the ground. _He couldn't have chosen a smaller caliber?_ Arthur thought in annoyance, before it occurred to him to wonder exactly _why_ Eames had just shot himself out of the dream.

"Oh my God," Ariadne gasped, and _then_ Arthur was angry at Eames for giving himself such a gory death right in front of her.

Eames had looked... off, somehow, when he had suddenly appeared. Also, Arthur really wondered what that late arrival was all about because he'd thought that the three of them had entered the dream-share at the same time. He and Ariadne had been walking together for nearly half an hour now, which was five minutes topside, and they all should have arrived at the same time. Arthur had never _heard_ of a delay of this sort before, even though it wasn't uncommon for players to have a hard time finding one another once they were in the dream....

But Eames hadn't simply walked up to them after wandering around this dream on his own. He had come into being in a way that meant he had only just entered the dream-share. It was a strange distinction, but things were often odd in the world of lucid dreaming. Someone who ran out of time on the PASIV simply vanished, whereas someone who died left behind a corpse. As Eames had done.

And Arthur wondered all over again why Eames had arrived late, and why he had, almost immediately upon doing so, shot himself in the head. He hadn't even given them the courtesy of meeting their eyes, much less giving them an explanation.

Well, whatever was up with Eames it didn't give him the right to kill himself in front of Ariadne, Arthur thought, his lips thinning in annoyance. It wasn't as though she was an amateur any longer, it wasn't as though she hadn't seen people die in the dream-share. But there was something overly dramatic and horrifying about watching someone shoot themselves in the head. And that was something she should have been spared, at least by her colleagues.

"Should we follow him up?" Ariadne asked, obviously concerned as she peered at Eames' limp body. Arthur stepped back to avoid the pool of blood that was working its way toward him, and something in him wrenched at seeing Eames dead like that, even if he knew it wasn't real, even though he was still furious at the forger for selling him out.

It was too small a step, from seeing Eames lying in a pool of blood to imagining it happening in reality. And Arthur was discovering, as he stomach twisted at the mere sight of the body Eames had left behind, that he still had feelings for the man. Strong feelings that he would like to deny but couldn't, no matter how angry at himself it made him.

"No," he snapped, knowing he sounded too short, but he was upset and confused, and he didn't like either feeling. It seemed that Eames was the only one who could get to him like this, and it was clear that Eames could _still_ get to him, even when Arthur had tried to metaphorically washed his hands of the other man. Even when he knew it was better to do so. "We still have work to do here. And there's still time on the clock."

Ariadne frowned at him, and he hid a wince at the reproach in her dark brown eyes. "Arthur, there's obviously something wrong," she argued, even as she allowed him to clasp her elbow and steer her away from the body that Eames had left behind in the dream-share. Her voice was infuriatingly even and reasonable, and the worst part was that Arthur couldn't argue with her words. "He wouldn't do something like that without a _reason_."

Arthur had to admit, much as he hated to do so, that she had a point. As much of a drama queen as he could occasionally be, Eames was always, _always_ serious about the job. Add to that the fact that Arthur knew full well Eames didn't like dying in the dream, and he knew that Ariadne was absolutely right. On the other hand....

"How do you suggest we kick out, then?" he asked, scowling a little even though he was trying to keep his expression calm and neutral. "I am _not_ shooting either of us in the head."

He was a little worried that this dry joke might have been going a bit far, but Ariadne didn't respond negatively. She just gave him a little smirk, a quirk of her lips, and pointed upward.

Arthur followed the line of her finger and found he was looking at the tallest building in the growing city he had dreamed up to her specifications.

He sighed, but didn't argue as the two of them set out for the skyscraper and its roof. He hoped the building had an elevator. At least falling was a less traumatizing way to kick out of a dream than shooting oneself in the head.

But Ariadne was going to owe him after this. And Eames was going to owe him more than he already did.

***

This time, the third time Eames kicked out of the dream, he had to disentangle himself from the PASIV device as quickly as possible and dive for the bathroom. He hadn't even time to slam the door to behind him before he was hunched over the toilet, throwing up the little he'd managed to eat for lunch that day.

Part of it was probably a reaction to having died three times in the dream in quick succession -- even for those who worked in the dream-share often, this sort of thing could be disconcerting -- but mostly he was completely stunned and horrified by the implication of the result of his three trips into Arthur's dream.

He'd expected that _something_ would go wrong, his first venture into the dream-share after... after what had happened. But he certainly hadn't thought it would be anything like _this_.

If he couldn't overcome this, he wouldn't be able to work in the dream-share anymore. Wouldn't be able to forge. Couldn't earn a living. Granted, he was still coasting on the cash Saito had paid him for the Fischer job. But that wouldn't last forever, and worse than that, Eames was feeling completely powerless and useless.

It was as though everything he had ever been and ever wanted to be had been forcibly wrenched away from him, and the fact that it was only real in the dream-share, not in the waking world, did very little to reconcile him to the reality of it.

His bout of vomiting had been violent but blessedly brief, and he was on his feet, swishing and spitting a palmful of water back into the sink in an attempt to rinse the sour taste out of his mouth when he heard Arthur and Ariadne stirring in the other room. It figured they had followed him back up, he thought with a lethargic sort of despair. Heaven forbid they grant him a few moments to compose himself. To figure out how he was going to handle this situation. To come up with answers to the questions they were inevitably going to ask.

Of course, the long reaching implications of this had been what had occurred to him first. But of more immediate concern, he had to figure out what to do about this current job, the one he was supposed to be helping Ariadne with. He couldn't let her down... but if he couldn't enter the dream without going completely blind, then he really was left with no choice in the matter, now was he?

"Eames, are you all right?"

That was Ariadne, of course, peering at him from the doorway with an expression more of mild concern than anything else. At least _she_ wasn't angry at him, as he'd no doubt Arthur was. It wasn't exactly good manners, was it, shooting oneself in front of one's colleagues. On the one hand, what else could he have done? On the other hand... well, neither Arthur nor Ariadne knew _why_ he had done it, and if he had his way they never would. A man had his pride, after all.

"Fine, love," he said, dragging a hand over his face, hoping he didn't look as haggard as he felt. He'd a feeling he looked worse, from the skeptical look Ariadne gave him, and the way her mild concern was growing into outright worry. Damn it, he'd been trying to avoid letting her know anything was wrong. Though, he had to admit, she was a smart girl and could hardly have helped but pick up on that fact already.

"Something in my lunch must have disagreed with me," he said airily, waving a hand. It was the first excuse that sprang to mind, but it was a potentially valid one. And it might explain all the facts, even though shooting himself out of the dream would have been a bit of an overreaction on his part if he'd been telling the truth.

"What lunch?" Arthur asked, and suddenly he was there in the doorway as well, staring at Eames over Ariadne's shoulder, his eyes narrow and his gaze sharp, as though he was going to be able to read the truth in the lines of Eames' face. "You barely touched your sandwich."

Eames' quick liar's brain helpfully supplied a follow-up to his first fib, that he hadn't eaten more of it due to having tasted something off about the meat or condiments, but his tongue was suddenly swollen in his mouth and his throat tightened to the point that he couldn't force the words out. Even though he trusted both Arthur and Ariadne, and even though they were both slim rather than solid, together they were filling up the only exit to the bathroom with their focused intent and their bright brown eyes, and as a result Eames was feeling more than a little trapped, felt as though he was completely hemmed in.

This was mostly a reaction to the things he had recently been put through -- because he knew that neither Ariadne nor Arthur meant him any harm, no matter how upset Arthur might currently be at him -- but it didn't matter the cause. It was the panic that rose to silence him, to accelerate his heartbeat past the point of comfort that was the problem.

"Maybe you should go back to your room and lay down," Ariadne said, and now she really was concerned about him, her brow wrinkling in a deep frown. "You don't look so good, Eames."

He nodded, and he could feel the cold sweat on his forehead but he didn't dare to reach up and wipe it away, to betray any more weakness than he had already done. He knew he had to be white as a sheet, and he only hoped that they couldn't see how he was shaking. It really would have been quite embarrassing if he'd had any room left in his agitated mind for such emotions.

But the way he looked must have helped, because, thank God, both Ariadne and Arthur moved back out of the doorway, giving him room to pass through. Which was a blessing in and of itself. It would have been even more suspect -- not to mention completely _humiliating_ \-- if he'd had a panic attack right here in front of them.

Arthur was still giving him a narrow, almost distrustful look as Eames grabbed his jacket and got while the getting was good. Eames didn't so much mind. There was no way that Arthur _didn't_ realize something was very wrong, and Eames had the sinking feeling that Arthur knew him well enough to be sure that he was lying about the reason. But that didn't mean he wanted Arthur to find out what the true cause was.

"You'll be here tomorrow?" Ariadne asked, but Eames shut the door to the suite behind himself without answering. Because he really didn't know. He was going to have to do some experimenting with his own PASIV device, in the privacy and security of his own hotel room, before he knew that for sure.

He could lie straight-faced to anyone about anything. But for some reason he didn't want to lie to Ariadne. Not about this.

Which turned out to be just as well. Because no matter how many times he went under using his own PASIV, _knowing_ that he was alone and safe, _knowing_ he only had one minute on the clock, he was unable to will his eyes to work. Sometimes they were there. Sometimes they'd been gouged out, dried blood streaking its way down his cheeks. But every time he was blind, and he kicked himself out as quickly as he could pull the trigger of the gun he now made sure to bring along into the dream with him.

He finished off the evening hunched over the toilet again, dry heaving until his belly and back ached from it, his eyes and throat burning, and with absolutely no idea of how he was going to live the rest of his life.

Granted, he had skills outside the dream-share. He had been grifting, faking things, and cheating in cards and other games of chance long before the PASIV technology had come into existence. He was a forger in the waking world as well as in the dream; creating papers, building identities, crafting chips that could fool even the owner of any given casino.... But never being able to dream up an entire world, a new face and form, never being able to see the wonders inside his own mind and the minds of others? How could he bear to lose that?

Eames had never really thought of himself as a hedonist -- as _some_ had accused him of being -- but he did consider himself an artist. And being blinded in the dream-share robbed him of the ability to practice his art. He could still forge a painting in reality, but doing so was stiff and dull. No, the real joy he took in forging now was his ability to put on the face and form of someone else, adopting their mannerisms and voice to the point that he could fool their nearest and dearest into believing he was them. Without that ability, without the ability to create an entirely new persona, a man or woman who had never existed before but whom Eames made real in the dream... well, what was there left to him?

And, worse yet, where this current job was concerned he was going to have to let Ariadne down. He was going to have to run away, very fast and very far, in order to avoid the inevitable questions that she and Arthur would be firing at him.

Or, better, he could run away first, _then_ text Ariadne. It was a shit thing to do, as he was well aware, but at this point he was functioning on nothing but pure adrenaline. It was the only thing overriding the sense of overwhelming despair that threatened to rise up and engulf him. Because he knew if he gave in to that, he'd never move again, and then he'd be caught that much more easily by those who might only wish him well, but who couldn't fail to rub the salt deeper into his mortal wounds.

And if he was being a bit melodramatic, Eames didn't care. He'd been through a lot in the last month, and the horror just continued. Now, the idea of joining Ariadne on her job and pretending that nothing was wrong seemed as foolish as he'd just proven it to be. He'd been a fool to think that he could do so, and now he wasn't going to be the only one paying for it.

Fuming -- at himself, at Blaidd Drwg Corporation, nonsensically at Arthur and Ariadne who were in fact blameless -- Eames stuffed some clothes and other essentials into a bag, grabbed his wallet and papers, then left the hotel in something of a daze. His room was paid through the rest of the week and he had little doubt Arthur would be able to break in effortlessly. Arthur could have the PASIV device; Eames obviously didn't need it any longer.

Eames had his passport and he had his mobile phone. He'd text Ariadne from whatever airport his flight landed in, once he was safely out of France, and then ditch the mobile before making another hop to another continent. Everything else....

Well, Arthur could tidy up the mess Eames was leaving behind him in Paris. And Eames, who was too much of a mess for _anyone_ at this point, including himself.... Eames would go and find a hole to crawl into.

Because that was evidently all he was good for anymore.

***

Arthur tried to convince himself that he wasn't surprised by Eames' desertion at the very beginning of Ariadne's job. He was definitely grateful that it had happened early enough that they had a chance to modify their plans, to weigh the pros and cons of bringing in someone else. In the end they decided to change their approach and do it with just the two of them, and Arthur took pride in the fact that it worked flawlessly. Pride both in his own abilities and Ariadne's. She was an amazing young woman, and it was truly a pleasure to work with her. Even if it would have been easier doing the job with three of them, if Eames hadn't left....

Of course, Ariadne had wanted Arthur to go after Eames rather than completing the job with her as soon as she'd gotten the news -- a _text message_ \-- that he was dropping out.

"Something is _wrong_ , Arthur," she'd exclaimed, waving her phone in his face. "He's not _like_ this, he doesn't _do_ this!"

"You're thinking Eames is more responsible than he actually is," Arthur had tried to tell her, but she'd only shaken her head, her jaw jutting stubbornly.

"Has he ever, _ever_ left a job like this before?" she'd asked him, eyes wide and worried. "With nothing but a text? God, he left his PASIV device behind!"

Arthur hadn't been able to bite back a wince at this reminder. She had a point. Even if he had been the type to leave a job with only a short text message -- and he really wasn't -- Eames had left most of his clothing and his PASIV device in his hotel room. Why would Eames leave behind the most essential tool of his trade? Especially one that was worth as much as the PASIV device was worth. Those things had a value of more than their weight in gold, in the world of the dream-share. And Eames had just left it behind?

After Ariadne had received Eames' apologetic text, once Arthur had gotten into Eames' hotel room and seen the PASIV case there, they had both tried calling the renegade forger. He hadn't answered, and they had both left voice mails; Ariadne's a little more frantic and Arthur's a lot more angry.

Which was probably why he'd called _her_ back, not Arthur.

According to Ariadne, Eames hadn't said much, hadn't let her ask any questions, had simply told her he was fine, he hadn't been kidnapped or anything, and said he was sorry again for bailing on her. Then he'd hung up and evidently disconnected the number, because none of their following calls had gone through.

Ariadne hadn't been much placated, until Arthur had gotten his hands on some security surveillance from the airport that had proved that Eames was there of his own free will, not being held at gun point or anything.

"That doesn't mean he's not being blackmailed," Ariadne had protested, but they'd both needed to focus on the job, and Eames was a grown man who could look after himself. After all, he hadn't asked them for help, Arthur had tartly reminded her.

Besides, as Arthur _didn't_ mention to her, he was still upset with Eames over having been betrayed to Blaidd Drwg Corporation. He'd forgotten in the initial burst of worry, but the fact was that he owed Eames nothing. He would go so far as to say that _Eames_ still owed him. A hell of a lot more than he could ever repay, in fact.

So Ariadne had sucked it up, and Arthur had tried to quash the underlying concern that he couldn't admit even to himself that he was feeling. Because Eames might leave a job when _other_ people were involved and something had gone sideways. But not this job. Not when he'd been working with Arthur and Ariadne, not when there wasn't anything wrong with the job itself. Even though he'd been wrong about trusting Eames, Arthur was dead certain on that point.

Then the job was done, successfully completed no thanks to Eames, and the questions came.

"Should we.... Should we split this three ways?" Ariadne asked hesitantly, the cash from their employer in her small, fine-boned hands. Arthur thought that payments in cash were horribly old fashioned and a little gauche, but Ariadne seemed to enjoy handling so much wealth, and he supposed he didn't really care much one way or another as long as they actually got paid.

Arthur snorted in response to Ariadne's question. "Let me put it to you this way," he said, trying to keep his tone reasonable and not scathing, because he liked being friends with Ariadne and didn't want to alienate her, no matter how angry he was at Eames. "Did Eames do anything, anything at all, to move the job forward?"

Ariadne bit her lower lip, her lashes fluttering, and she looked worried all over again. "Well, if there was something wrong with him, then leaving the job would--"

"The answer is no, Ariadne," Arthur interrupted, but not as sharply as he might have. "He did nothing whatsoever to help us and so he doesn't get any of the payment."

She frowned at him, but didn't pursue the matter, instead sharing the cash out between the two of them. But her silence was very pointed and it was almost a relief when she spoke the question they both knew was foremost in her mind.

"Are you going to go and find him?" she asked quietly, once she was done dividing the payment and handed Arthur his half.

"Wasn't planning on it," Arthur answered honestly. Figuring out where Eames had fled and trying to figure out _why_ weren't the same thing as going and finding him, he told himself.

Ariadne frowned, clearly disappointed. "I can't do what you do, Arthur," she said, and she looked so serious as she said it. "I know there's something wrong and you know it too, even if you don't want to admit it. I can't track Eames down now that he's disconnected his phone, but I need to know he's all right. If you won't do it for him, will you at least do it for me?"

And, well, when she put it like that, what choice was Arthur really left with? Damn it.

"All right," he said, begrudgingly. He tried to tell himself it was for Ariadne, to assuage her curiosity and concern, but he wasn't able to lie to himself that thoroughly.

Still, he was at least able to convince himself that it was _mostly_ for her.

***

It was easier tracing Eames' path before the job than afterward, so Arthur started there. Maybe he was stalling. Maybe he didn't really want to know where Eames was now. Maybe he was hoping to find out exactly when and why Eames had sold him out.

Well, the key word there was "sold". Arthur assumed money had passed hands, leaving Eames the richer for the transaction. Now that he was over the initial shock of the betrayal, now that his job with Ariadne was completed, Arthur thought that it was time to get the particulars.

Also, he was beginning to wonder if Blaidd Drwg Corporation hadn't something to do with Eames leaving Ariadne's recent job. It really wasn't like the man. He'd seemed to be willing to join them at first, enough so that he had traveled from wherever he had been all the way to Paris. That wasn't something to be done if one were going to change one's mind on a whim.

The more Arthur thought about it, the more he came to think that Ariadne was right, and there was something seriously wrong. Probably it didn't have anything to do with either of them, but it would be best to be sure.

Besides.... Even though he was angry at Eames and going to be angry for a long time, even though he might never forgive him... none of that made Arthur's feelings for Eames go away. He might hate to admit it, but he still cared for Eames and still cared what happened to him. He might wish him ill, but he didn't wish him anything worse than what he had brought on Arthur's head.

That thought might seem contradictory to someone else, but Arthur was fair-minded and he was a man of the world. It wasn't as though Eames had ever sung him vows of loyalty. In fact, he distinctly remembered Eames telling him more than once that he oughtn't to trust him. Of course, that had been early on, and Arthur had thought that things had changed... but Eames hadn't ever told him that they had. Arthur was honest enough to acknowledge all of these facts. Because they were indeed facts.

So, while Eames was in no way off the hook, Arthur had to admit in a sudden fit of honesty that he only deserved about half the ire that Arthur had been directing at him.

As annoying as that realization was.

He tried to ignore the further knowledge that a lot of his current anger at Eames was probably sublimated worry. Because that would take him to places he didn't want to go. It was easier to be angry at Eames than to admit that he was deeply concerned about his well-being.

Still, all of this made Arthur feel better about tracking Eames down, made it seem like less of a waste of time. And he didn't have to convince himself that he was doing it for Ariadne's sake. Or at least not entirely.

Arthur started with tracking Eames' movements in the days after the two of them had parted ways in the period between their last job together and Ariadne's job. This only made sense, because everything had been normal up to that point; between them and in Eames' behavior.

Finding out where Eames had gone and what he had done, however, proved to be more difficult than Arthur had anticipated. They'd both gone into hiding, due to their recent job having gone a bit "pear shaped" as Eames had said. Not due to any fault on either of their parts, Arthur comforted himself. But they'd both agreed that separating and going to ground had been the best choice.

Arthur had told Eames where he was headed, and so when Blaidd Drwg Corporation had found him, he'd been shocked to say the least. Arthur was _good_. So good that there was no way he should have been tracked down, no way anyone could have found him without help.

Blaidd Drwg Corporation was a ghost from Arthur's past, a job that had turned sour before he'd tried to extract from Saito for Cobol, before Saito had turned the tables on them and hired them to incept Robert Fischer. It had been a nasty surprise to discover that they'd been out for his blood, but he'd dispatched their goons easily enough, and hoped that this would send a clear enough message that he was not to be fucked with to whomever had directed them.

So when Arthur failed to find Eames' tracks once they'd separated, he decided it might be a better use of his time, hacking into some of the more secure of Blaidd Drwg Corporation's internal networks. At some point, they and Eames had to have crossed paths, right?

And so Arthur made his way deep into the corporation's most secure network, into files that weren't supposed to exist, maintained by a man who wasn't supposed to be working for the company. Who wasn't even supposed to be alive any longer.

To say that what Arthur found there shocked him would have been an understatement.

Because, as it turned out, it had _not_ been Eames who had sold Arthur out. In fact, the truth was that it had been the work of this man who was supposed to be dead, the one who had put out the hit on Arthur, who had tracked him down even though Arthur had thought that this should be impossible.

Arthur didn't even have time to feel overwhelmed by contrition or guilt over having blamed Eames, however, because the very next bit of information he dredged up was the fact that Blaidd Drwg had indeed gotten their hands on Eames once he and Arthur had separated. And the information that Arthur found in the secret files about what had occurred afterward, completely proving Eames' innocence, was so chilling that he immediately turned all of his attention to finding out where the vanished forger was now.

He would deal with Blaidd Drwg Corporation at some point, as well as the man who had put out the hit on him. But right now he had something far more urgent to do.

He ought to have listened to Ariadne when she had said that Eames wasn't himself, he berated himself, throwing everything that he had into tracking down his erstwhile lover and colleague. His _friend_. He should have realized that something was very wrong when Eames had shot himself out of the dream right in front of Arthur and Ariadne. He could have at least given Eames the benefit of the doubt and _asked_ him whether he'd told Blaidd Drwg Corporation where Arthur was.

Because now... now he was playing catch-up to a man who was very, very good at hiding his tracks, and he had a feeling that the sooner he found Eames the better.

Better for both of them, true, but especially for Eames.

In fact, it might very well prove to be essential.


	3. Chapter 3

Of course, once sense returned to Eames and he stopped behaving like a panicky idiot he deeply regretted leaving his PASIV device behind.

Because it might be safe in Arthur's capable hands now, but Arthur was not likely to be inclined to return it to Eames. The less so because Eames was never going to be able to _face_ Arthur again. Arthur probably wouldn't _want_ to see Eames again, he thought bleakly. A man who couldn't even manage to stick with a job through its opening planning. A man who sent a _text_ instead of letting his colleagues know face to face that he was leaving, or at least with a phone call.

Well, _Ariadne_ had called _him_ and left a voicemail. Frantic with worry, and not even the slightest bit angry at him for bailing on the job, which had certainly twisted the knife already sunk in his heart. He'd called her back, done his best to reassure her, then ditched his mobile, because he wasn't going to be able to do _that_ again.

There had been a voicemail from Arthur as well, but Eames hadn't been able to bring himself to listen to it.

Because even more than his PASIV device -- which hadn't been easy for him to get his hands on, and which would have been worth a _lot_ of money to the right people even if Eames himself could no longer use it -- Eames regretted walking away from Arthur.

Well, he had panicked and run away, he had to admit. Because if he couldn't be a man and stand firm in the face of what he had discovered about himself, he could at least be man enough now to admit that he had behaved like a fool in response to his experience.

He had completely blown whatever it was that he had with Arthur. Not only was Arthur not going to forgive him for running away as he had, but Eames wasn't going to be able to tell Arthur _why_ he had done it. He was going to have to completely avoid the underworld of the dream-share, and that meant that he had no reason any longer to see Arthur.

He still wasn't sure what they'd had going on, wasn't sure how to categorize it in his head, but whatever it had been, it was over. The fact that he wasn't going to be able to interact with Arthur again sort of put paid to the idea of them being... _anything_. Colleagues, lovers, maybe even friends, it was all gone now. Ruined along with Eames' eyes in the dream-share.

A small part of him thought that he was being overly melodramatic. That he should have just _told_ Arthur -- but then Arthur would feel guilty, the rest of him argued -- that he should have stayed and tried to work this through -- but he'd been completely crippled in the dream-share, the larger part of him reminded -- or at least that he should have taken his PASIV device with him and continued trying to overcome his dream-based problem....

But the greater portion of his consciousness was mired in despair and self-pity, and such things were faint and fleeting regrets. It had been easier to bolt, to find one of his hidey-holes that Arthur hadn't yet sussed out, and lick his wounds alone. Alone as he should be. Alone as he was doomed to be from this point out.

It was hard realizing how much he had lost with his ability to work in the dream-share.

It was even harder, agonizing, knowing that he had lost Arthur. Because that was what it came down to, and that hurt more than anything else.

It could be possible that he might be able to work his way through this cloud of painful memories and depression over his lack of a future and come out the other side with renewed resolve and both the ability and desire to _fix_ things, to fix his broken self....

But right now, at the bottom of his pit of despair, the climb out seemed insurmountable. And he was all alone.

***

Arthur was fairly certain that there were still men he needed to kill, completely apart from the thugs he had already dealt with, but once he discovered the truth of what had really happened his first and foremost priority was to _find Eames_ so that was where he focused all of his resources.

He knew some of what had happened, but he needed the particulars, and the best way to get those was to track down the vanished forger. It might not be readily apparent to those who only saw his outward calm and his enduring patience, but Arthur could be just as curious and detail-hungry as Ariadne at her worst. Especially when it involved Eames.

There was a not inconsiderable amount of guilt attached as well, Arthur had to admit. Not only had Eames been targeted and tortured in Blaidd Drwg Corporation's attempt to find _Arthur_ , but after the fact, Arthur had immediately jumped to the conclusion that Eames had sold him out. He had believed Eames capable of doing so and had thought he had done, when in fact the exact opposite of that was true. Eames had been held both physically and in the dream-share in an effort to get the information from him, and he had _not_ given Arthur up.

Arthur still wasn't sure what they had between the two of them, but he knew that Eames hadn't betrayed him when it would have been far easier and less painful for him to do so. And that _meant_ something. Eames had never made a secret of the fact that he would sell out anyone to a higher bidder, but he'd refused to give away Arthur's location when it would have spared him great suffering to do so.

This knowledge settled a great weight on Arthur's shoulders and twisted a knot in the pit of his stomach, but it also made something in him feel light and illuminated. That Eames felt so protective toward him... it told him more than words ever could have done. And he trusted to it more than he ever would have trusted to words; not that Eames had ever spoken him declarations of emotion or intent.

No, Eames had _shown_ his feelings for Arthur, and Arthur wasn't going to ignore that fact. Even though Eames had run away. Even though Eames had left without a word to him and done his best to severe all ties.

Arthur winced now to recall how he had treated Eames when they had come together for Ariadne's job. On the plus side, he kind of doubted Eames had really noticed.... But that in itself did not bode well at all. Eames normally had a hyper-awareness of Arthur and Arthur's emotions during any time that they spent in one another's company, be it for work or play. That he had been so distracted, so inwardly focused during the bare beginnings of Ariadne's job... well, Arthur already knew that something was very wrong, but this definitely underlined the fact.

And that might be the main reason he was hunting Eames down -- because he was worried, because he _owed_ Eames, and because he had Eames' PASIV device -- but he had to admit that a large part of it was also because he needed to know _what_ had happened to Eames due to his refusal to give away Arthur's location.

The report he had read had been infuriatingly vague. _Subject remains resistant to all forms of persuasion,_ was official shorthand for "torture", as Arthur well knew. And it made his blood run cold. But that was all that there had been. And Arthur needed to know _what_ tortures Eames had undergone to protect him. Even though all the damage had been done in the dream-share, thank God, the trauma of it had obviously lingered.

Arthur was kicking himself now for not seeing it more clearly, for not paying attention to Ariadne's concerns, for holding onto stubborn pride and misplaced resentment past the point that had been reasonable or intelligent.

It had been clear something had been wrong the moment Eames had walked in the door to join them. It had become obvious when Eames had shot himself out of the dream the first time they had gone under and then feigned food poisoning. Arthur hadn't for a moment believed him, but he hadn't pursued the matter either.

And then Eames had run, and Arthur had stupidly finished the job instead of going after him like Ariadne had urged. So now Arthur was stuck playing catch up, trying desperately to find a man who clearly didn't want to be found. And Eames was nearly as wily as Arthur when it came to things like becoming purposely lost.

 _Nearly_ wasn't quite equal to, however. And Arthur had a reputation for being the best on point for a reason. If he wanted to find someone badly enough, that person was usually found, and usually by him.

It wasn't easy, but within two days of his chilling discovery in the secret Blaidd Drwg Corporation files, Arthur had managed to track Eames down. Eames hadn't fled to any of his familiar bolt-holes but Arthur hadn't expected that he would do so. If Eames had wanted Arthur to find him, Arthur would have done so before the end of the job he'd been working with Ariadne. Instead, Eames had done his best to disappear and Arthur had to expend _his_ best efforts to track the man down.

Arthur thought vaguely that he ought to contact Ariadne once he'd tracked Eames down, to let her know he'd found the man. But this had stopped being a favor for her and become hugely personal for Arthur the moment he had read the word "persuasion" and found himself consumed with dread and the overwhelming need to know the whole story.

He figured he could send her a quick email or text, without the specifics of country or city, once he had seen Eames with his own eyes and knew that the man was all right.

Or _not_ , as the case might be....

Arthur found he was forced to revise all his plans the first time he got a glimpse of Eames. He had thought that the man had looked worn and exhausted when he had turned up in Paris. Now he looked downright haggard. Hunted. Haunted.

Arthur was relieved just to _see_ Eames, to know that he was physically whole even if he was obviously very distressed, emotionally and mentally. But it was far too evident that he was doing much worse than he had been before he had fled Paris, leaving behind Ariadne, Arthur, and an unfinished job.

And now Arthur was dead certain that he didn't dare to approach Eames. Not directly, at any rate. He wasn't going to get a good response if he did so, and he wouldn't find out what he wanted, _needed_ , to know. Arthur knew Eames well enough to know that the man's pride and stubbornness would seal his lips, would prevent him from telling Arthur what had happened to him in the dream-share when he had been captured and victimized by Blaidd Drwg Corporation.

No, if Arthur wanted to find out what had happened to Eames that had rendered him so broken, so badly damaged that he'd had no choice but to flee, he was going to have to be sneaky and underhanded about it. And he had a plan.

It wasn't ethical. It certainly wasn't moral in any sense of the word. And it might not work. But Arthur was desperate and he was willing to take the chance.

Getting his hands on the right formula was the hardest part, but it wasn't too difficult. Arthur had plenty of connections, knew chemists with incredible talent where Somnacin was concerned, chemists who certainly wouldn't ask questions about what their mixes were going to be used for; not that many did.

In only required a slight tweak, Arthur assured himself, trying to ignore the screaming reality of the morally _wrong_ action he was about to undertake. Just something to speed along the extraction, to make it more likely to work when he was dealing with someone as skilled and practiced in dream-work was he was.

Besides, he was mainly doing this because he was worried about Eames.

He could try to rationalize it all he wanted, but the fact of the matter was that almost anyone in the dream-share community would have ostracized him for what he was doing. And those who wouldn't... well, they weren't the sorts that Arthur would willingly work with.

But he couldn't bring himself to care about his slipping morals or to discard the plan. Because he was desperate. Eames was never going to just _tell_ him what had happened. Arthur knew this with as much certainty as he knew that "Eames" was not the name the man had been born with. And yet Arthur needed to know. He needed to know what had been done to Eames because of him, and he needed to know how to begin to fix it. If that was even possible, but he sincerely hoped that it was.

Perhaps he should have had second thoughts when he solicited the chemist and paid three times the normal price for a vial of modified Somnacin. He definitely should have had second or third thoughts when he found himself running surveillance on Eames, waiting for the man to go to bed and fall asleep, as though he was a complete stranger. And he absolutely should have rethought his plans when he found himself breaking into Eames' hole-in-the-wall apartment with a PASIV device and a vial of a compound that he shouldn't even use on a mark, much less a colleague, a friend, a lover....

And yet here he was. And it was too late to back out now. Not that he had any real inclination to back out. This was too important to him.

Eames was too important to him.

***

 _Cold,_ was the first thing that Arthur registered as he came to awareness in the dream-share. _Sterile,_ was his next assessment.

He was standing in a hallway lined with bare white walls, a white tile floor beneath his feet, and stark fluorescent bulbs illuminating the whole area, set in a white ceiling.

There was an air of cruelty to the place, which surprised Arthur not at all, and it smelled of despair and pain. Arthur immediately knew that this was somewhere he didn't want to be, and yet he also knew that Eames was here somewhere, and that he had to find him.

That was what the enhanced Somnacin formula did; it triggered memories, more specifically _strong_ memories. And Arthur hadn't been wrong in thinking that the strongest memory Eames would have would be of what had been done to him by Blaidd Drwg Corporation. This foreboding hallway had the stench of their construction all over it.

Arthur disapproved of the dream-share being used to hurt people in general, but he found it to be completely unforgiveable when it had been done to someone he cared about. He was going to get to the bottom of this, find out how Eames had been tortured, and then he was going to _do_ something about it.

He wasn't quite sure what that part entailed, so instead he focused his attention on tracking Eames down in this constructed dream.

It wasn't hard. There was only one door in the stark white hallway.

The entire effect of this place was geared toward intimidation, but Arthur was not intimidated. He was angry. He was wary. He had his gun at the ready as he approached the door, preparing himself for what he was going to find on its other side.

Not that anything could really have prepared him, even though he had known to expect something terrible. He shouldn't have been surprised, and he really wasn't, but he was shocked, horrified, and completely stunned by the tableau before him as he shouldered the door open.

For just a moment, no longer than three heartbeats, Arthur completely ignored the four big men filling the small, sterile room, and focused his attention on Eames, assessing his condition. That was why he was here, after all.

It could hardly have been more gruesome, he thought, his nose filled with the stench of blood, the white of the floor tiles stained crimson beneath the chair Eames was tied into.

Eames' wrists were bound to the chair arms, his fingers mangled into swollen, almost unrecognizable shapes, his bared forearms and chest striped with horrifying swathes where the skin had been stripped away. But the worst damage, the thing that captured and captivated Arthur's attention almost completely, were the ruined eye sockets. Where Eames' bright, intelligent, dark grey eyes had once gleamed, there was nothing but blood and other fluids that Arthur didn't like to think about, streaked down his cheeks like grisly tears.

Before he could become too sickened by what he was seeing, before he could really process it beyond his initial reaction of complete horror, one of the men moved, snapping Arthur's attention away from Eames and back to the rest of the room.

Quickly, unhesitatingly, Arthur put a bullet into all four of the thugs before they could reach him. He was lucky none of them were armed, but this didn't really process; he just wanted to kill them. It didn't matter that they were projections within the memory of a dream. They had _hurt_ Eames, and if the men existed in reality then they were going to have to die. He already knew after seeing their faces that they weren't the same ones he had already dealt with when Blaidd Drwg Corporation had made its move against him.

Arthur would find them, and he would kill them outside the dream the same way he had just done in this memory of a dream.

But right now, right this instant, he needed to deal with Eames. The beaten, battered, broken, _blinded_ Eames who was bound to the chair before him.

He still didn't know for sure _why_ Eames had left Ariadne's job, but he thought that he now had a much better idea of the cause. And he knew that it was his fault.

***

Eames knew that he had been here before. He knew this, knew that he was in a dream, and not only that but the dream of a dream. But as it had been when this had happened the first time, it was difficult, so incredibly difficult to keep that knowledge at the forefront of his mind.

His senses were reeling from whatever his captors had added to the drugs -- which effect had evidently been recreated in this rerun of the horrifying dream -- not to mention his mind being awash with the agony of his skinned arms and chest, his broken hands, and his missing eyes.

Each bit of damage had been done separately, with great deliberation, each designed to offer him the maximum encouragement to give over his silence, to tell them what they wanted to know, to cough up Arthur's current location.

No, no, not his current location.... Not right now... right?

Because Arthur was _safe_ right now, a disjointed part of Eames' battered brain managed to tell him, even while most of his thoughts were consumed with trying to deal with what was happening to him right now, trying to deal with the pain and fear without screaming. Arthur was safe, he'd already dealt with the thugs from Blaidd Drwg Corporation, had taken care of himself and kept himself _safe_... right?

It was difficult to keep that in mind. It was growing difficult to remember that he was in a dream. The same as it had been the first time. Eames was swimming in and out of lucidity, and now, toward the end of the encounter for the second time, just like the first time, it was almost impossible to remember that it was all happening in the dream-share. Without the ability to check his totem, with the drugs clouding his brain, he'd spent nearly half the time thinking that it might very well have been reality, that he actually had been blinded, that he was undergoing very real disfigurement in order to keep Arthur safe....

But it was that last that made it all worthwhile. Eames wasn't sure when Arthur had become so important to him, but the image he kept in his mind's eye -- since his physical eyes were gone now -- of Arthur smiling and ducking his head, dimples on display, was what gave him the willpower and strength to be able to withstand this torture, to defy his captors.

He'd never have reacted this way before. He'd have sold anyone out for a profit, much less to save himself physical damage. But when he thought about living a life without Arthur in it, a life where Arthur never again smiled at him or rolled those expressive brown eyes.... Well, it was a bit melodramatic to say that life wouldn't be worth living, when Eames always had held his life precious and still did, but it would have robbed it of any and all future joy.

Eames wasn't sure how Arthur had become so important to him, but he couldn't deny that it was true. He didn't think he could have held out for anyone else. Not for Ariadne, no matter how tiny and delicate she was. Not for Cobb, even though he had kids. Not even Eames' own Mum.... Well, maybe his Mum.

How he had come to put the same measure of importance on his Arthur and his mother escaped Eames right now, but he was in so much pain that he was surprised he remembered that he _had_ a mother. And when they had taken his eyes, it hadn't been her face in his mind, it had been Arthur's. That warm and pleasant expression that he wore sometimes, when he didn't realize and hadn't schooled his face into something more impassive.

Then again, it had been Arthur that the men had been asking about. So it made a certain amount of sense that it was Arthur that Eames was thinking of. Right?

He was to the point that he could barely distinguish what was happening around him, and he doubted he could have answered his captors' queries if he'd been so inclined -- which seemed a little counterproductive to him -- when there was a disruption that struck his as _wrong_. Not that there was anything _right_ about what had been done to him. But this was something new, something that he couldn't remember, with what little of his mind that was still functioning.

First was the yelling. His captors hadn't raised their voices, except when they'd been beating him, which they weren't right now. And then a series of very loud noises ripped over the sensitized surface of his skin, so intense that his body almost interpreted them as blows. Belatedly, he recognized that they had been gunshots, and he wondered what was going on, because he didn't think any of his captors had been armed. Not that he had noticed before they had taken his eyes, anyway. He'd been tied down the entire time, so they hadn't needed guns; only the knives they'd used on his flesh and his eyes.

He was in so much pain that he couldn't summon the faintest bit of curiosity. The only thing keeping him partially upright was the rope binding him to the chair, and the only thing keeping him conscious was the agony of his wounds.

"Eames. _Eames!_ "

Someone was saying his name with a certain amount of urgency, he realized as the sound filtered through his whirling senses enough that he could translate it.

He couldn't reply and wouldn't have if he'd been able. He didn't know who was speaking to him or what they wanted, and he was really just waiting for the following question that he wasn't going to answer. If anyone wanted to know where Arthur had gone, they could just work it out without his assistance. He was beyond the ability to reply, true, but even if he could have, he wouldn't have.

It had occurred to him before they had begun slicing strips of skin off his chest and arms to wonder why, since they were in the dream-share, they hadn't just tried extracting from him in the usual ways. But then, he was militarized and highly trained. It was possible they had tried and failed, or maybe they'd just known better than to waste their time making the attempt in the first place.

Either way, here Eames was; in pain and barely able to cling to the knowledge that this was a dream. It was the only thing that he _could_ hold onto, once they blinded him. That, and the knowledge that Arthur was safe, that Eames was keeping him safe.

He had completely forgotten that this was a dream of a dream that had already happened; it was almost as though he was experiencing it for the first time.

Then there was a bite of cold metal at the base of his skull followed by a bullet that obliterated everything and broke him free of the dream.

***

After shooting Eames out of the dream, Arthur immediately followed. There was little to no danger of either of them falling into limbo, even with a modified formula, and there was no way that he was waiting this out; not with Eames in the condition he had found him in. Not when it had been Arthur's fault he'd had to relive the horrible experience. Not to mention it had been Arthur's fault that Eames had been tortured this way in the first place, albeit inadvertently and without his knowledge.

Arthur was on alert the moment he awoke, but he had been _expecting_ to emerge from the dream-share into reality. Eames, who had gone to sleep as normal, alone in his own bed, alone in his own apartment, and had wound up in the dream with his eyes gone and his body wracked with pain, simply lay there for a long moment, blinking up at the ceiling and breathing rapidly.

Arthur sat up and removed the needles from both their wrists with hands that were trembling faintly. His heart was pounding against his breastbone, but he was doing his best to remain as collected as possible. He had to. That was the only way he was going to get through the coming confrontation.

Eames slanted his eyes over toward Arthur, his forehead creasing in deep lines. "Arthur?" he croaked, sounding as though he hadn't spoken in a long time.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said, getting that right out there, first thing. "God, Eames, I'm _so_ sorry."

Eames blinked, once, twice, and then he shot up off the bed so quickly that Arthur went on defensive alert before he realized.

"What?" Eames gritted, his jaw tightly clenched and his eyes going hard and narrow.

Arthur was torn. It was such a relief to see those beautiful grey eyes whole and sparking that he felt faint from it. But Eames was deeply infuriated, and with such good cause that Arthur was sick with guilt and repentance.

"I'm sorry," he blurted again. The first time he had said it, he'd meant for forcing Eames to relive the experience and for being the cause of it. This time he meant for having invaded Eames' living space and his sleep, for entering his dream without permission.

"What the hell was that?" Eames snarled, and there was something feral and furious in his face that actually made Arthur fearful. Not so much over what Eames might do to him, because he knew that he could handle Eames. They were pretty evenly matched, and Eames had clearly been stinting himself on food and missing sleep lately. No, Arthur was abruptly terrified that Eames was never going to forgive him for what he had just done.

"I just wanted--" he started, but before he could finish this sentence, Eames cut a hand through the air, striking him silent as surely as though he'd just slapped Arthur.

"Get out," Eames snapped, and there were hectic patches of color in his cheeks, but it didn't look anything approaching healthy.

"Eames, I--"

"Get out!" Eames barked, sounding more broken than anything else, one shaking finger stabbing toward the door.

Arthur had already done enough damage, had done more damage than he knew how to fix, and so he got out as directed. He wasn't going to _stay_ away, but he couldn't remain in the room any longer, not in the face of all the betrayal and agony on Eames' face.

He left the PASIV device behind, but it had been Eames' after all, the one he'd deserted in Paris. And he only went as far as the room he'd rented across the street, from which he'd been doing his surveillance. He only intended to leave Eames alone for as long as it took him to calm down, to recover from having had to relive his torture and blinding. He gave him a little space, a little time, and he was going to go right back over there, after a few hours had passed.

Even though he was fully aware that he was in the wrong here, that he was a selfish person who had done a horrible, unforgivable thing, he also needed to get this taken care of. He needed to make sure that Eames knew Arthur was here for him, that he was going to fix whatever it was that had driven Eames away from their job in France, and that they were going to get revenge on the men who had done this to Eames. Arthur didn't make the mistake of thinking that the thugs he had killed had been the only men involved. There were others, including the ghost who had masterminded this whole thing, and Arthur was determined to destroy them all.

But his first and most important priority was Eames, and his health.

Unfortunately, when Arthur went back to Eames' apartment after an hour and a half had passed -- because he was impatient and he _needed_ to see Eames, to know he was all right -- the forger wasn't there any longer. This time he _had_ taken the PASIV device, and all of his luggage, but long gone he was.

And this time, Arthur didn't think that even he was going to be able to track the man down.

Arthur had the feeling, his heart sinking into his shoes, that Eames wasn't going to want to see him again. Ever.


	4. Chapter 4

This time when Eames went to ground Arthur couldn't find him. And if he was painfully honest... well, he didn't really _deserve_ to find him.

He had completely betrayed Eames' trust, extracting from him as he had done, without an ounce of finesse. It didn't need to be stated, that in the dream-share a person didn't go hooking a colleague up without their knowledge or permission. Ever. Not if they wanted to have a future working relationship. And not, Arthur thought with an internal wince, if the two of them had been sleeping together on a semi-regular basis.

When Arthur discovered that he wasn't going to be able to track Eames down without help -- and he wasn't about to ask anyone for aid; not out of pride, but to prevent anyone else from knowing how vulnerable Eames was right now --he decided to turn his attention to the bastards who had done what they had done to his... friend... his colleague... his, his _Eames_ , dammit.

He wasn't giving up on Eames, of course. But he was well aware that Eames wasn't going to want to see him now. Possibly not ever, but the sooner he hunted him down and faced him, the more likely he might field a bullet to the face.

Arthur would give Eames his distance for now, and maybe someday, if he was very lucky, Eames would allow him to ask forgiveness.

Right now, though, he would find and take care of the men who had done those horrible things to Eames in pursuit of Arthur. There was no overlap between those bastards and the thugs who had come after Arthur directly, that he had already taken care of, aside from the fact that they all worked for the same company. That meant that there were four men walking the face of the Earth who had done their part in breaking Eames, in ruining him for dream-work -- whether that had been their intent or not -- and Arthur just could not let that stand.

They all had to die.

Hunting them down and taking them out would distract him from Eames, and from the expression of complete and utter betrayal on the man's face. Arthur never wanted to see that expression again, and yet would Eames ever look at him any other way?

Arthur had no idea how he could fix things between them, or if that was even possible, but he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until he had. And in the meantime, hopefully pertinent to this goal, he had some men to find and some lives to end.

It was a start, at any rate.

***

Eames couldn't stop shaking.

He wasn't a man who trusted easily. In fact, he'd have said that he didn't trust. Not anyone. Not even himself, really. But somehow he'd come to place a certain amount of faith in Arthur.

He still couldn't quite fathom what Arthur had done, and he had no idea _why_ the man had done it. It had been bad enough he'd had to endure that torture once, but to have had to relive it.... Well, whatever Arthur had been trying to get out of him by dragging him through that all over again, Eames hoped that he had gotten it. Because he wasn't going to be getting anything else out of Eames.

Ever.

Eames wasn't the sort of man to prematurely close doors, not normally. Not when there was a chance that he could make good use of something or someone in the future. But what Arthur had done had been so far beyond what was tenable that Eames couldn't find it in himself to try and forgive the man.

Arthur _had_ apologized. Twice. But this wasn't the sort of thing that a simple "I'm sorry" could fix. It had been a complete and utter violation; of Eames' flat, of his sleep, of his dreams and his memories, and... yes, of his _trust_. It had been Arthur willfully and selfishly doing something he should never have done without any regard for how it would end up affecting Eames.

It had been horrific, having to experience it all over again. The pain and the fear, the blindness that followed Eames out of that nightmare and back into the dream-share even after the fact.... Eames had suffered it all, endured it in order to keep Arthur safe. And then Arthur had-- Arthur had--

Eames clasped his hands tightly together, trying to still their trembling. He was on a plane on its way to Paris, and he didn't quite know why. It would have made more sense for him to avoid everyone that both he and Arthur knew. It would have made more sense to bury himself so far and so deep that Arthur would _never_ be able to find him again.

And yet, for reasons completely beyond his ability to comprehend, he was running straight to Ariadne.

Maybe it was because she was the most innocent person that he knew. Not to say she was in any way pure or above reproach. Still, there was a certain wholesomeness to her that remained untouched, even when she was working with proper villains like Eames and Arthur. And it went without saying that she was the most innocent person that _Eames_ knew. He didn't have many acquaintances, didn't have any friends -- not now that Arthur had forfeited this tentative label -- and of everyone in his life, Ariadne was the only one who he thought might occasionally do the right thing _because it was right_ and not just because it was lucrative or prudent.

Maybe he was giving her too much credit. Certainly he shouldn't be descending upon her, as much of a mess as he was right now. And yet he felt that she might not mind too much. She had shown honest concern during their last job, and it had seemed personally motivated, not simply an expression of worry over whether Eames could uphold his part of the extraction. And so.

It might make absolutely no sense at all, but now that Eames was on the run, tail tucked firmly between his legs, he felt he might be safe with Ariadne. At least for a little while. So long as she didn't kick him out the moment she saw him, of course. At least he'd had the sense to put most of his luggage in storage so that it didn't look as though he was planning on _moving in_ with her.

If she refused him shelter, as she'd be well within her rights to do, well, Eames had plenty of bolt-holes and aliases that Arthur didn't know about. And if he was afraid that Arthur might discover him anyway, he could always craft new ones.

Still. With the feeling of knives stripping away his skin and cutting out his eyes crawling over his memory and mind, and his hands still shaking, days later, Eames wanted nothing more than to be somewhere _safe_. And right now there was only one person or place that spoke of safety to him.

That was why he was on his way to Paris and Ariadne's flat. Because if he couldn't trust Arthur, then he didn't really have anywhere else to go.

***

Ariadne hadn't forgotten that she was worried about Eames, and she certainly wasn't content to receive a single text from Arthur simply stating _"Found Eames"_ without any specificity as to whether the forger was all right or why he had run off, and with no further news in the following days, but she wasn't exactly swimming in the resources necessary to do anything about it.

She had tried texting, emailing, and calling Arthur, of course. A two-word message was hardly what she had meant when she'd told Arthur to contact her after he found Eames, and it wasn't enough to assuage her anxiety. But Arthur had yet to get back to her. She tried telling herself that this was a good sign, that Arthur was so busy spending time with Eames that he hadn't had a chance to get back to her... but she had a sinking sensation that the opposite of this was true, and that in this case no news was actually bad news.

This feeling seemed to be justified when she came home from classes on the fourth day after getting Arthur's text to find a hunched figure seated on the hall floor in front of her apartment.

"Eames?"

It had actually taken her a second to realize that it _was_ Eames. He looked... smaller, somehow. Reduced. He was huddled into himself, but beyond that he just seemed somehow _broken_. Maybe not completely, but thoroughly enough for the moment.

Okay, so she might have been reacting a bit melodramatically... but not much, she thought as she knelt beside Eames. He hadn't seemed to have noticed her arrival, even though her boots had been making noise on the floorboards. She was used to him having a cat-like awareness of his surroundings, and this lack of response shook her even more than his appearance.

Not that his appearance wasn't disturbing enough.

His hair was a mess and his clothes were rumpled, as though they had been traveled and slept in. He had a PASIV case and a small bag that probably held a few essentials, but he wasn't even wearing a jacket. He hadn't passed out, and when she was near enough to smell him she could tell he needed a bath but there was no reek of alcohol. So he wasn't drunk. He just seemed... exhausted.

His eyes, as he raised them to meet her gaze, were blank and dull, red-rimmed, and it took a full two heartbeats before recognition flickered in them.

"Eames, are you all right?" she asked, trying to sound more clinical than urgent. She couldn't see any blood, but that didn't mean he wasn't hurt in some way.

"Peachy," he replied, in a broken croak that indicated he was anything but. "Hallo, love, may I come in? Please?"

Ariadne had _never_ heard that tone of pleading in Eames' voice before and it caught at her breath, making her throat ache. He had always been so self possessed before, always calm in the face of danger, always in control. Now.... What had happened?

"Of course," she replied, standing and unlocking her door with hands that fumbled a little. "Do you need a doctor?" she asked, maybe a little belatedly.

"No," Eames replied, shaking his head wearily and levering himself up to his feet, using the doorjamb and wavering a little once he was upright. "I just need somewhere safe."

Ariadne's brows rose and she wondered if he even knew what she was saying. She'd never heard Eames utter anything so unguarded or reveal so much potential vulnerability. "Go and sit on the sofa," she instructed, grabbing the big silver PASIV case and dragging it inside, then reaching for his smaller bag. Unlike the PASIV device, the bag wasn't very heavy.

She left them both in the entryway, locking the door behind herself, and then she went to make sure that Eames had made it to the sofa, as directed.

He had, though he was slumped on it as if he had just kind of stumbled into it and fallen, and had no intention of moving again. Which, well, she liked Eames, but the thought of him as a permanent fixture in her home was a little frightening.

Still, he had come to her for help, had designated her apartment as being "safe"... or maybe he had meant Ariadne herself. Either way, she wanted to do her best to help him fix whatever had gone wrong.

And it was all too clear that _something_ had gone wrong. As worn and haggard as he had looked when he'd shown up for her most recent job, the one he had fled from, he looked a hundred times worse now. A stiff wind could have knocked him over, and he was obviously running on fumes.

It was on the tip of Ariadne's tongue to ask Eames if Arthur had found him, but she caught herself in time. It was more than likely that Arthur _had_ and that this was what had somehow created the problem, whatever it was. In which case Eames wouldn't appreciate the reminder. And, even more importantly, if it _had_ been something Arthur had done that had driven Eames here to her apartment Ariadne didn't think it would be a good idea to make it seem as though she and Arthur had been colluding behind Eames' back. Even if that wasn't the truth, even though she had only been worried.

And it looked as though she had been right to worry.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked, sitting gingerly beside Eames on her tiny sofa. Everything about her apartment was tiny, which worked out just fine because so was she. The one time previous to this that Eames had been here, he'd seemed to fill the place up to bursting with his muscles and the force of his personality. Now... he seemed to fit, in a completely disconcerting way.

"I-- Yes, please," Eames replied, seeming a little surprised at himself for answering in the positive.

Without giving him a chance to change his mind, Ariadne rose and went to make them some tea. He looked as though he could use some fortifying, so she put some madeleines that she had purchased fresh that morning on a plate and brought the whole bunch over to where Eames was listing on the sofa.

He straightened, seeming to pull himself together with an effort, and Ariadne shared out the tea.

"What's going on, Eames?" she asked as he sipped at his steaming mug, deciding to bite the bullet and just put it out there. If Eames was seeking shelter in her home, she wanted to know why. In fact, it was her apartment he was in and so she felt she had the _right_ to know, completely aside from her innate curiosity. "Are you okay?"

"Define _okay_ ," Eames muttered, and she would never have thought lips as full as his could flatten out like that, but there they were. As it was obvious that he was _not_ okay, she let the bitter tone of his voice slide, but he hadn't answered either of her questions.

"I'm... well enough," he continued, the gritty gravel of his voice telling her more than the long pause that he was either stretching the truth or outright lying. Still, if she took it to mean no bullet holes or knife wounds, then she could work with that answer.

"So what happened?" she insisted. "Why did you leave the job and what are you doing here? Are those two things connected?"

"Sort of," Eames replied, drinking more tea, but not touching the madeleines. Ariadne snagged one off the plate, nibbling on it, but only for something to do with her hands. She had absolutely no appetite, her stomach twisting itself in knots. It wasn't as though she was hugely invested in Eames' well-being. She couldn't even call him a friend, in all honesty. But he was someone that she knew and respected, someone she kind of liked, and she hated seeing him in this kind of broken-down condition.

Instead of continuing, Eames sat there, his normally bright eyes glazing over, and if Ariadne wasn't imagining things, his lower lip quivered ever so faintly.

Suddenly terrified that Eames was going to break down in tears on her sofa, on _her_ , Ariadne set down her madeleine, took the mug from Eames, then scooted in as close as she dared to get. She reached forward and clasped his hands in her own smaller hands. His fingers were cold and he was trembling faintly, and it wasn't as though she hadn't known there was something wrong, but now she was absolutely certain of it.

"Eames, come on," she said, even though she felt as though she ought to be comforting him instead of asking him to quell his natural emotions. On the other hand, she really didn't want him breaking down completely. "You're scaring me here. You've _been_ scaring me."

"I'm sorry," he crackled, and those were definitely tears in his eyes now, even though he seemed determined not to let them spill over. He gave his hands an experimental tug, as though he might pull free, but she held on and he subsided, seeming to sink even further into her sofa.

"Don't be sorry," she instructed, trying to sound as calm and collected as she could when her heart was beating a hard tattoo against her breastbone and ribs. "Just tell me what's wrong."

"What, then? Or now?" Eames asked, swallowing tightly and now he was clinging to her hands as though they were a lifeline. At least he seemed to be less on the verge of dissolving into tears. Ariadne really didn't know what she might have done if a grown man, a man she only knew as being completely and utterly together, were to start crying on her. She suspected she wouldn't handle it very well, so she was relieved that it looked as though she wasn't going to need to find out.

"Yes," she replied brutally. One thin tear _had_ escaped and was running down the side of Eames' face furthest from her, but Eames' eyes were mostly dry now, and they both tried to pretend that it hadn't happened.

Eames grimaced, then sighed and shifted more toward her. She almost wanted to let go of his hands and reach forward to wrap her arms around him, but he had a tight grip, and besides, she didn't know him well enough to take such liberties. Even though he looked as though he could use a good hug.

"I was...."

His voice trailed away and he seemed at a loss as to where to begin, so Ariadne decided to give him a little prompting.

"When you showed up to work with me and Arthur, you didn't seem the same," she said. "I mean, I could tell you were trying hard, but you were distracted. And it was clear that you weren't eating or sleeping... am I right?"

"I was eating and sleeping," Eames protested, but not very vigorously.

"And then the first time we went into the dream-share," she continued relentlessly, because not knowing had been driving her crazy all this time, "You showed up late and shot yourself out. Then you ran and kept running. Eames, _you left your PASIV device behind_! So what happened?"

Eames gave vent to a little sound that was dangerously close to a moan, his eyes sliding away from hers and across the room. Ariadne felt a little bad for asking, but she needed to know. _Needed_.

"It was...." Eames sucked in a great gout of air, and his hands were shaking more violently now. This time it was Ariadne's turn to hang on tight. "It was the company that tried to take out Arthur."

"Blaidd Drwg Corporation?" That made a certain amount of sense, she thought. She'd been a little distracted at the time, but she recalled that Eames had reacted more violently than she would have expected when she had mentioned the name.

"Yeah." Eames sat there for a moment and just breathed. He was staring intently out her window, and she wasn't sure he was blinking. "They wanted Arthur but they could only get a hold of me," he continued, his voice low. "They caught me, drugged me, and took me under."

Ariadne was beginning to feel even more sick, as possibilities began to filter into her mind. She was sharp and she had a vivid imagination, but in this case she wasn't sure she wanted to exercise it. But she had asked and maybe it would help Eames to talk about it.

"They... did things... to try and convince me to talk," Eames continued, so softly she had to strain to hear him. He licked chapped lips with a nervous flicker of tongue, not offering any more detail than that. Not the Ariadne _wanted_ more detail. She was smart enough to read between the lines and see the word "torture". The thought of anyone torturing Eames, even if it was only in the dream-share... well, it was awful. Even if he woke from the dream whole of body, his mind had felt the pain and in the dream it would all have felt far too real.

"Jesus," she breathed, without meaning to, the word just slipping out.

This was almost worse than finding out that Cobb had inadvertently caused his wife's suicide. In some ways, it _was_ worse. At least for Ariadne, because she knew and liked Eames, whereas she had only ever met Cobb's projection of his dead wife, had never known Mal in life.

Ariadne enjoyed working in the dream-share. She loved building things and had come to appreciate being able to pull off a successful extraction. But there was definitely a dark side to it as well. And just because these horrible things hadn't happened to her, that didn't mean she was unaffected.

She had felt empathy for Cobb, and now she was consumed with indignation and sympathy over what Eames had suffered.

"The worst was when they took my eyes," Eames continued, and for a long moment Ariadne's brain refused to understand what he meant. Then her stomach gave an extra twist and she couldn't have said anything if she'd tried. "That was.... That was why I had to leave your job," Eames concluded, and he looked _ashamed_ , of all the insane things. "I couldn't... couldn't see anything in the dream, even though I told myself over and over that it was all right, that it had only been a dream. I'm... I'm sorry."

"Oh, God!" she exclaimed, startled into speech, because in no way should Eames was _apologizing_ for anything that had happened. "No, Eames! Of course you didn't stay! Not under those circumstances." She paused a moment. "Though, I wish you'd told us _why_."

"I couldn't," he said brokenly, finally meeting her eyes. He looked more alert than he had when he had turned up at her front door, but he was filled with pain at the same time. Ariadne didn't like that, but she couldn't think of any way to make it better. "I couldn't say anything," he said, so decisively that she could almost believe him. "Neither of you knew... what had happened. I couldn't tell Arthur. I couldn't tell you. I shouldn't have said anything, just now."

"Yes, you should have," Ariadne said firmly, pulling herself together for Eames' sake. "And I'm glad you did. It's not as though I _wanted_ to know... but you shouldn't have to endure this all alone. You need support, and I'm here to give you whatever support I can."

Eames lowered his gaze to their clasped hands, and Ariadne loosened her grip, feeling him do the same. Neither of them pulled away, though.

"But what happened after you ran?" she couldn't help asking, because it was clear to her that she had only gotten half the story. For one thing Arthur had said he'd found Eames, but Eames was here now instead of with Arthur. Not to mention, Eames had his PASIV device back, when the last Ariadne had known Arthur had still been in possession of it. This seemed to indicate that Eames had somehow gotten it back from Arthur.

But the second and more telling thing, was the fact that Eames had come to Ariadne in order to feel "safe". Ariadne was no fool; this was a clear indication that something had gone dreadfully wrong when Arthur had caught up with Eames.

And, okay, maybe it wasn't any of her business, but Eames was sitting here in her apartment, had come here in search of safety, and she felt like this made it her business after all, at least a little.

But Eames only shook his head. "Sorry, love," he said, and his voice was back to sounding cracked and hoarse. "I can't--"

"Okay," she assured him, because part of making him feel safe should include not pushing him to tell her more than he was comfortable with. "Maybe later." She squeezed his hands and then turned them loose.

Eames bit his lower lip and wouldn't meet her eyes, but that was all right. He looked exhausted, and suddenly Ariadne felt the overwhelming need to mother him. And this urge, she had no qualms about indulging.

"Now," she said, trying to sound certain and sure, not as shaky as she actually felt inside. "You take your bag into the bathroom. Shower and shave if you have the supplies, then put on clean clothes. You'll feel better. I'm going to go shopping while you do that, then I'll make us dinner. And after that, you're going to sleep until you wake naturally. Sound good?"

Eames nodded dumbly. He looked a little relieved to have been taken in hand this way, Ariadne thought, hoping she wasn't imagining things. She only had the tiny sofa and her bed, but they would figure out the sleeping arrangements as they went along. Right now she wanted to get Eames refreshed and rested. And fed. He looked as though he'd been stinting himself far too many meals lately.

Well, with what he had told her, she could hardly blame him.

"Don't--" Eames blurted out as she rose, and she paused, meeting his suddenly panicked gaze with wide eyes. "D-don't tell Arthur. That I'm here. Or... or anything."

"I won't," Ariadne promised immediately. "I wouldn't, Eames." Anything to get that expression off his face, to give him the sense of safety that he'd come seeking. She hated to hear him pleading, never wanted to hear it again. And, besides, she kind of suspected that Arthur didn't _deserve_ to know where Eames was. She still had no idea what had gone down, since Eames had declined to talk about it, but from the way Eames was behaving it wasn't looking good for Arthur.

She still wanted the whole story, but she knew better than to push right now. Doing so would risk driving Eames away, and then she might never find out more. She might never see him again, or know whether or not he was okay, and that wasn't acceptable.

"Don't be shy about crawling into my bed," she informed him, gathering her wallet and jacket as he watched with a dulled gaze, seemingly exhausted by his outburst. "I wouldn't offer it if I minded, and there's no room for you to sleep on the sofa there."

Eames nodded, and she wondered if he was even processing what she was saying.

Spontaneously, she stepped closer and bent to kiss his forehead. "I'll be back," she promised him, reaching and squeezing his shoulder. "Make sure you're still here, okay?"

Eames nodded again, and she decided that he was too exhausted to do anything other than stay. Not that she was pleased by this, of course. But she wanted to be sure that he'd still be here when she returned with food.

Which he was. Clean and damp, his cheeks clean-shaven, wearing clothing more casual than she had ever seen him in. He was curled in a tight huddle on her bed, and that made her heart ache, as she tugged the covers over him. It seemed as though he couldn't relax even in slumber.

She had food but Eames didn't look as though he'd be waking any time soon. That was all right, though. It was early for dinner and he obviously needed the sleep. It wasn't as though Ariadne didn't have plenty of schoolwork she could do in the meantime.

So she let him sleep and got on with that. Eames had come to her in order to feel safe, and she was going to do whatever it took to keep him safe. And that meant as much from her own curiosity as anything else.

Even though she really was dying to know what had happened between him and Arthur.

***

Arthur had very little trouble finding and dealing with three of the four men who had tortured Eames in the dream-share. After all, he knew who they had been working for and he had seen their faces.

He took a certain amount of satisfaction in hunting them down, subjecting them to the same physical damage they had inflicted on Eames, then killing them. If he had any real regrets, it was only that Eames wasn't with him to witness his vengeance. And if this made him somewhat twisted -- as he suspected it did -- then so be it. Arthur wasn't going to stand for anyone hurting Eames.

He'd certainly done well enough on that front himself, unfortunately. But he was going to do his best to make it up to Eames. And then he would ensure that it never happened again.

The problem that he ran into, after putting a bullet in the skull of the third man, was that he had now fallen too far behind the ghost who had masterminded the whole thing. He should have gone after that man first, even though the others had been easier. _Because_ the others had been easier.

By this point the man had to have heard about what Arthur had done to the first man, if not the second one, and he had to guess by the second one that this was related in some way to their attempts at "persuading" Eames to give up Arthur's location.

This ghost had been working for Blaidd Drwg from beyond the grave, so to speak, and now he would have gone into even deeper cover. And deeper cover than being dead.... Well, Arthur was good, but he was going to need some help finding this bastard.

Besides which, he had put off checking on Eames for longer than he was comfortable with. Even one day was too much time, and it had been several days by this point. Five days, four hours, and about ten minutes, to be exact.

Of course, now Eames' trail had gone cold as well. But Arthur was nothing if not obsessively devoted. And if there was a chance in hell that he could talk Eames into helping him to track down this last man... well, even if Eames never forgave Arthur, he at least deserved to face the monster who had cause him so much pain and robbed him of his eyes in the dream-share.

Arthur hadn't forgotten that it had been to find _him_ that these bastards had done all they had done to Eames. He couldn't forget. But for right now, at least, he chose to focus more on the damage done and who had actually done it, than the why of it all. That was the only thing keeping him from melting into a wretched puddle of guilt and angst.

Arthur had gotten more information about what exactly had gone down, out of the men who were dead now. How they'd gotten their hands on Eames and then how he had escaped. After all, they hadn't just let him go because he wouldn't talk. No, he'd made his own way out. It had helped that they'd underestimated his resistance to the sedative they'd used, as well as his foresight in hiding a lock pick in the seam of his trousers, and his skill at opening doors that were supposed to be impossible to breach.

Arthur's blood ran a little cold when he considered what might have happened if Eames hadn't liberated himself. It was unlikely that his captors would have stopped with just one session of torture and disfigurement. And no matter his strength of will and his evident sense of loyalty to Arthur -- which he was still having trouble processing, the fact that Eames had suffered so much without giving away his location, but it was an irrefutable reality -- it was entirely possible that eventually Eames would have caved. Any man might, if subjected to enough pain and prolonged torment.

That, or they might have managed to concoct a Somnacin formula similar to the one Arthur had used, and gotten the information out of him that way, without Eames being able to consciously defend himself.

If they had done either of those things, Arthur would more than likely have still been able to kill the thugs that the Blaidd Drwg Corporation had sent after him. Eames wasn't the only one they had underestimated. But they very likely would have disposed of Eames once they no longer had any use for him. And even contemplating for a moment, that Eames could have been killed before Arthur even knew that he was in trouble, with absolutely zero chance of rescuing him... well, it made something in Arthur want to die, and something even stronger burn with a fierce and violent rage.

It had certainly made it easier for Arthur to inflict the same damage on the bastards who had tortured Eames that they had done to him, and then to kill them. He'd had no doubt that this was the fate Eames would have faced if he had remained in their hands, if he hadn't escaped. It had only been fair to visit this on them in turn.

Besides, Arthur really hated leaving loose ends.

Playing the avenging angel hadn't made Arthur feel any better. What he wanted, what he really _needed_ was to find Eames. He wasn't going to rest until he had done so. Even if Eames never forgave him for the violation of his trust, Arthur at least wanted the chance to beg him for forgiveness. Not being able to ask would be worse than asking and being denied.

Although, he'd have to hurry. While he was searching for Eames the ghost wouldn't just be sitting on his thumbs. He was undoubtedly being proactive even now, tracking Arthur down the same way Arthur was tracking him down. In fact, Arthur was hoping that even if Eames wouldn't forgive him, he might be willing to help Arthur in this, dealing with the final man who had tortured him. Maybe it would give Eames some closure...?

Well, either way. Arthur needed to find Eames, and then he needed to find the ghost, with or without Eames' help, and he had to do both of these things as quickly as possible.

It might help if he had the slightest idea of how to do so.

Out of desperation, and perhaps the desire to hear a familiar voice, he called Ariadne.

The phone rang so many times that he was sure it was going to go to voicemail, and he was trying to decide whether to leave a message, and what he should say if he did, when she finally answered.

"Arthur?"

"Yeah, it's me," he confirmed, feeling a bit as though he'd been caught flatfooted even though he was the one who had called. "How have you been?"

"Worried sick!" she snapped back, almost before he had finished asking, and he winced. He really ought to have anticipated... but he'd had other things on his mind lately. He'd been so wrapped up in his quest for vengeance that he'd almost forgotten Ariadne had been worried about Eames as well, and that she didn't know what had happened to him; either before or after Arthur had found him.

"Sorry," he offered, and if it came out sounding a little grudging, he didn't mean it to. "I... got busy, and didn't have a chance to get back to you."

In his mind's eye he was seeing blood; Eames' in the dream and the three men he had dispatched in the last few days. Ariadne was a world away from that sort of morbid reality, and Arthur wouldn't have it any other way.

"Just a two word text, Arthur?" she sounded angry, and he really couldn't blame her. "You couldn't be bothered to send me a little more information?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, sounding more sincere this time, even to his own ears. "You deserved more and I didn't get it to you. I apologize."

"Well," she said, sounding a bit mollified, "I don't know about _deserved_... but it would have been nice not to have spent all that time worried sick."

"I did tell you I'd found Eames, though," Arthur offered, for what that was worth.

"And never said a word about how he was doing," Ariadne pointed out sharply. "All I got was that you'd found him, and then nothing, no matter how often I called or emailed!"

"Well, that was because I lost him almost right away," Arthur told her, knowing that he sounded defensive. This brought him to the reason for his call, though. "Have you heard from him?" he asked urgently.

"Arthur, what did you _do_?" Ariadne asked, and he flinched, as much because of what he had done as in reaction to her tone of voice. Not that he intended to tell her what he'd done. He could barely stand the shame of having done it; he certainly wasn't going to share.

"Something I shouldn't have," he replied shortly. That was as far as he was willing to go, and it was true. All too true.

"And so he ran again?" She sighed, and Arthur bristled. "You had to know that would happen."

"Look, I haven't been making the best choices lately," he huffed, trying to keep his indignation out of his voice, because... well, Ariadne was right. "I'm trying... I'm trying to make things right."

"Try harder," she instructed, causing him to frown.

"I am," he retorted sullenly. The fact that she was right, even though she couldn't know _how_ right, only made him feel more guilty. "I'm trying...." He paused, catching himself before his voice actually trembled, and drew in a deep breath. "Look, I gotta go. I'm... I'm sorry for not calling or contacting you in any way. I really am."

"Arthur, are _you_ okay?" Ariadne asked, and now she sounded solicitous and kind, over her brief patch of anger.

"Sure," he replied, lying through his teeth, then finished the call as quickly as was polite, before he did something eternally humiliating like break down crying; from stress, from guilt, from grief over having possibly destroyed the burgeoning relationship between Eames and himself....

And it wasn't until after he was off the phone that Arthur realized Ariadne had never actually said whether or not she knew where Eames might be.


	5. Chapter 5

"So, Arthur called me today."

Ariadne spoke the words almost casually but the sharpness of her gaze indicated that she was trying Eames out, testing him, waiting to see what his reaction would be.

And he had to admit that... after spending a few days with Ariadne, living in her flat... he was feeling better. He didn't go on the defensive, or even on alert when she said Arthur's name. His heart did beat a little harder, but he managed to keep his physicality free of a visual response.

"I didn't tell him you were here," she added when Eames didn't answer right away, just sat very still and nodded slowly. "I promised you I wouldn't. Although, he _did_ ask whether I'd heard from you."

This startled a little huff of amusement out of Eames. "Must really be scraping the bottom of the barrel, then, our Arthur," he said. "No offense intended."

"No, I know what you mean," Ariadne replied, her lips quirking slightly at one corner. She really was handling the whole mess quite well, considering that Eames had pretty much dumped himself in her lap. Or at least in her flat.

Not only that, but he was sleeping in her bed. Sharing the queen size mattress -- which was the largest piece of furniture in her tiny domicile -- with Ariadne herself, because she swore up and down that she trusted him to be a gentleman, and because she refused to let either of them sleep on the floor.

It made something in Eames' chest tighten every time she said she trusted him, and he wasn't sure whether it was in pleasure or in pain. He was reasonably certain that she _shouldn't_ trust him, but he hadn't yet turned into a midnight octopus and wrapped her up in an embrace that would have traumatized them both, despite his tendency to cuddle with Arthur in the past. Evidently his subconscious knew the difference even when he was sound asleep. Quite a relief, all things considered.

Now, if only his subconscious could tell the difference between being blinded in a dream that had ended and being blind in a new dream.

"You ought to tell me what Arthur did," Ariadne pressed, not for the first time. "I need to know how angry at him I should be."

Eames winced. He'd been thinking about that a lot lately. Ever since arriving in Ariadne's flat, in fact, because it wasn't as though he'd had anything else on his mind. Not really. When he wasn't sleeping he was thinking about Arthur. When Ariadne wasn't engaging him in conversation, and sometimes when she tried, he was thinking about what Arthur had done, why he had done it, and while Eames hadn't come up with anything approaching a conclusion, he'd at least come to terms with his own emotions regarding it.

He still felt angry and betrayed. He still couldn't for the life of him figure _why_ Arthur had thought it would be a good idea to cause him to relive his torture and disfigurement in the dream-share. But he also knew Arthur. He'd thought for a brief time after what had happened that he'd never really known Arthur and that the man was more devious and cruel than he had thought. But that wasn't true, he came to realize as the immediate rage and agony faded. He was still angry and deeply hurt, but he wasn't sure any longer that what Arthur had done had been unforgivable, because....

Well, Arthur could be a bastard, and he could be an arsehole to Eames in particular, especially when he was in a mood, but he had never been deliberately cruel. Not to Eames. Not to anyone, really, but especially not to Eames.

The one thing that might make the entire thing potentially defensible, was the fact that Arthur wouldn't have done what he had done specifically to damage Eames. Eames might still not trust the man, and he might still question Arthur's motivations, but he was fairly well convinced of this one truth. For whatever reason he'd decided to cause Eames to relive that nightmare, Arthur probably hadn't known how bad it really was going to be. Probably. And he _had_ apologized immediately, for what that was worth.

That didn't mean that Eames was going to go spilling the whole sordid story to Ariadne, though.

"I'm sure that Arthur had a good reason for what he did," was as far as he was willing to go at this point in time.

Ariadne's mouth immediately pursed in a distasteful moue. Eames wondered what he had said wrong, and then she spoke and let him know. "Wow, Eames," she said, and it wasn't clear whether she meant to come off as snippy or sympathetic. "That sounded just like my friend Lauren when her boyfriend hit her."

"What?" This startled a sudden burst of honest laughter out of him. "Oh, no," he hastened to assure her. "No, no. Love, no disrespect where your friend is concerned, that's a terrible thing, and I sincerely hope she left the bastard. But this is nothing like that. Don't worry, I can handle myself, and Arthur would never.... " He shook his head, then he paused and gave it a moment's thought. Because to be fair the scenario wasn't outside the realm of possibility. "Well, or if he did, he'd fully expect me to hit him back."

That much, at least, he was certain of. He frowned a little and shook his head again. "No, I just meant.... He must have at least thought he had a reason... right?"

"Well, since you won't give me details, I couldn't say," Ariadne replied dryly. She seemed somewhat reassured, but her pink lips were still a little tight. "And abuse doesn't always have to be physical, Eames. I'm just saying."

"Nothing like that," he reiterated. "Trust me, I've been in an abusive relationship before, so I'd recognize one if I were in it, and I'd clear out."

Ariadne's brows snapped up toward her hairline, and Eames sighed, knowing that he had just exposed himself far more than he had ever meant to do, and now he had to open up even wider in an effort to explain.

"I meant my father," he clarified. "Not a romantic relationship. Not that Arthur and I were in a romantic relationship, of course," he added quickly, lest Ariadne get the wrong idea.

Ariadne was staring at him, and Eames was aware he was babbling, but he couldn't seem to stop the words coming out of his mouth.

"Not in any kind of a relationship, that is. We were... well, I guess you could say that we were fucking but that's not something I should be talking to you about, so how about we just pretend that you didn't hear that, all right?"

Ariadne was smirking at him by now, and it was better than the expressions of sympathy he'd been getting from her ever since he had arrived, and it was certainly better than her thinking he was some abused boyfriend or something, but he wasn't sure he liked the way the expression sat on her face. As though she now knew far too much about him, and thanks in no small part to his errant tongue, she did.

"Is it dark in that hole of denial that you've dug yourself?" she asked him sardonically, then suddenly her expression shifted and she looked appalled, her eyes flying wide and her hands slapping over her mouth. "Shit! Sorry, Eames, I wasn't thinking!" she blurted.

"No, it's all right," he hastened to assure her. By this point he was more angry and irritated by the fact that he couldn't enter the dream-share without going immediately blind than traumatized by it. Maybe having his PASIV device back had helped, maybe it was the distance of time, or maybe being here with Ariadne in her flat had soothed something in him, but things didn't seem as hopeless as they had when he'd fled from Paris the first time.

He still hadn't gone under yet. And he didn't know whether he'd ever be able to work in the dream-share again. But the memory of being tortured and blinded was beginning to fade, the way most dreams did. Even lucid dreaming was only a dream, and once a dreamer was separated from the dream for long enough, the pain and panic began to slip away. Arthur had brought all that back to the forefront of Eames' mind when he had forced Eames to relive the experience, but now... well, it was getting some better. Slowly... definitely slowly... but surely.

"You're still not going to tell me what Arthur did, are you?" Ariadne asked, speaking carefully but pushing, always pushing. And Eames supposed it was only fair considering that he was hiding out in her flat. But he just couldn't bring himself to verbalize what had happened. 

He couldn't bring himself to move out yet either. He knew that he should. He had no right to impose on Ariadne like this, but even though he was healing, he was still too broken to just up and leave. As well, Eames suspected that if he _tried_ to leave Ariadne would refuse to let him go. The one time early on that he'd made noises about finding his own place, she'd told him "absolutely not" in no uncertain terms. Even though he was doing better now, he suspected her feelings on the matter wouldn't have changed.

"I'm sorry," he said, spreading his hands, pleased to note that they weren't shaking. The shaking had stopped after about twenty-four hours of being in Ariadne's flat, a good nineteen of which he had spent sleeping, sunk in blessedly dreamless, restful slumber. He thought that Ariadne had been as relieved by this fact as he had been.

Ariadne just shook her head at him. "Eames, I don't mean to sound like a bitch," she said, reaching forward and squeezing one wrist briefly before loosing him. "But you ought to talk to someone about it. And if not me, then.... Well, maybe you should talk to Arthur."

Eames grimaced, and Ariadne looked as though she had regretted making this statement.

But more and more Eames was beginning to think that she might just be right. Thinking himself in circles wasn't accomplishing anything, especially when he was still too afraid to enter the dream-share. When he had so many unanswered questions. He really... he really ought to talk to Arthur.

That didn't mean he was going to go out of his way to make it happen, though.

***

Arthur was a bit surprised to find himself back in Paris so soon. But he was a man of excellent instincts, time and experience had taught him to follow said instincts, and his instincts were informing him quite clearly that there had to be more to Ariadne's avoidance of his query than the mere happenstance of an awkward conversational pattern.

Either that, or he really was grasping at straws.

Still, he didn't think he'd made the wrong decision. Once his plane touched down in France he got himself a hotel room, had a bath, changed his clothes, then settled himself down to wait outside Ariadne's apartment building.

He was prepared to sit there as long as it took, despite the fact that every moment he spent here was time the ghost could use to track him. He was here, but he couldn't bring himself to go up and knock on the door. That was too much. Too invasive. Besides, he wasn't even sure....

And then, to his relief, Ariadne exited the building before he had even been there fifteen minutes. As he had told her, he had been making a lot of bad choices lately, so it was nice to find _something_ going right for a change.

Now, if he could just make it through the coming conversation intact.

Ariadne's eyes rounded as he stood, drawing her attention before he could even speak her name.

"What the hell are you doing here?!" was not the most gracious greeting he'd ever gotten, Arthur thought with an internal wince, but he kind of deserved it. And it made him even more certain that he was in the right place.

"I came to talk to you," he said. He wanted to say _"I came to see Eames,"_ but that would be too much too fast. And it was true that he needed to talk to Ariadne first. In fact, that might be all he would get to do. But maybe he could send a message with her...?

"And you couldn't call?"

"Would it have done any good?" he asked, quirking a brow.

"Well, you'll never know now," she said, and she folded her arms defensively, but she didn't look as though she was completely unwilling to listen to him, which was something.

"He's here, isn't he," Arthur said, not even bothering to make it into a question. "Staying with you."

Ariadne scowled at him for a long moment, and Arthur held his breath, doing his best to look both repentant and intractable at once. This was what it all came down to. If he had any chance in hell of getting Eames' help with the ghost, of maybe someday potentially getting Eames to forgive him, he was going to have to go through Ariadne first. Her fierce expression was making that much clear.

"Arthur, what did you _do_ to him?" she asked, and she didn't answer his question, but she might as well have. The lack of a reply in the negative was as good as a reply in the positive and they both knew it.

"He won't tell me," she continued, her eyes flashing, and now there definitely wasn't any doubt left that Eames was here. "And I'm not going to insist, since it's obviously something awful, but I need to know. So _you_ tell me. And depending on what you say, maybe I'll pass along a message for you. Maybe."

That was honestly the most that Arthur could have hoped for, and so he sucked in a deep breath, considering Ariadne's demand. On the one hand... well, hadn't Arthur betrayed enough of Eames' confidences? But on the other hand... Eames was staying in Ariadne's apartment, which meant that he trusted her, and it was entirely possible that he _couldn't_ tell Ariadne what Arthur had done, rather than _wouldn't_.

Really, the fact was that Arthur felt the overwhelming need to tell someone, wanted to get it off his chest, and Ariadne was the best person to spill his heart to. In fact, aside from Eames -- who already knew at least part of the whole sordid story, if not the whole thing -- she was the only person he _could_ justifiably tell. From his own perspective as well as Eames'.

"Shall we go to a cafe or something?" Arthur asked, fighting the urge to fidget, forcing himself to stand still, his shoulders so stiff that the skin between them felt pinched. Then something belatedly occurred to him. "Were you on your way somewhere important?"

"Just shopping for dinner," Ariadne answered, to his immense relief, stepping forward to take his arm and then leading him away from the building. "It won't matter if I'm a little late. Eames is probably sleeping."

Arthur winced, which Ariadne undoubtedly noticed but mercifully didn't mention.

"Is he doing all right?" he asked, praying that his voice didn't wobble. "I mean, obviously not," he added when she shot him an incredulous glance. "But...."

"He's doing better," she said, after remaining silent so long that he almost thought she wasn't going to answer. And that was all he got out of her until they were seated and had cups of tea before them.

"How much of what happened do you know about?" Arthur asked, meeting her eyes steadfastly. Once he had made up his mind, he wasn't going to prevaricate. He did, however, need to know where to start.

Ariadne grimaced and sipped her tea. "He told me about what the Blaidd Drwg Corporation did to him in the dream-share. He told me about the way he was blind when he entered the dream-share during my job. But that was it."

"Oh!" And just like that, the one missing piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Arthur had been wondering what had driven Eames away from the job they had both undertaken with Ariadne, here in Paris what seemed ages ago. After all, if it had only been due to the trauma of the memory, then Eames wouldn't have even bothered to show up, right? But if he had decided to give it a try, only to find that the blindness carried over into further dreaming....

"Did you even talk to him before you chased him off?" Ariadne was asking incredulously, her eyes going wide with surprise and then narrowing. "Arthur, tell me what happened after you found Eames."

"It wasn't.... I didn't talk to him, no. I didn't think I would be able to. I didn't think he'd talk to _me_. So I did something.... Ariadne, I'll tell you, okay, but you can't tell anyone else in the business. It would ruin me. Which I suppose I deserve, but--"

"Telling anyone on you would also be telling on Eames," she said firmly. "Which I'm not going to do. So go ahead. I need to know what happened."

That was going to have to be enough. Arthur was aware that he didn't deserve to have Ariadne hold off on spreading the tale for his sake, not after what he had done, but he really hoped he'd have a chance to make up for it. Somehow. Even if Eames never forgave him, Arthur wanted to be able to make things better someday.

Well, he could start by telling Ariadne what had happened, no matter how painful it was for him to share his sins. "I..." he shifted where he was seated, driven to it by nerves. "I waited until he was sleeping and took him under using a special mix of Somnacin that was specifically designed to trigger recent powerful memories."

Ariadne stared at him over their cooling tea, but didn't seem to have anything to say in response to this.

"I had no idea how bad those dreams were going to be," Arthur added, even though he knew it was a weak defense at best. "If I'd had any idea, of course...."

"Oh my God, Arthur!" Ariadne blurted, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. "How could you do something like that? How could you violate him like that?!"

"Isn't it a little hypocritical of you?" he asked sharply, stung as much because it was _true_ as because; "You're judging me for something that you've done!"

"Not like that," Ariadne snapped back, then she sat for a long moment, scowling and flushed. "How do you know about that, anyway?" she finally asked, tone a little sullen.

"Cobb told me," Arthur replied bluntly, because there was no reason not to. "Once he heard I was working with you, he thought I ought to know."

Ariadne sniffed and took a sip of tea. Her cheeks were still pink, but she seemed to be making a concerted effort to calm herself. "It's still different," she argued. "I did what I did because I knew Cobb was hiding something, and I was too new in the business to really know how unacceptable it was. I guessed, but I didn't _know_. You've been at it long enough to know, and you should have realized that Eames wasn't going to take it well. You also should have known that whatever it was, it was going to be bad."

"I did," Arthur said mournfully. Everything Ariadne was saying was true, and he wasn't going to harp on what _she_ had done when they were sitting here discussing what _he_ had done. There would just be no point to it. "I knew, of course. But I had no idea how awful it was going to be. And I didn't know that what he'd suffered... what he'd gone through had been in order to protect _me_."

Ariadne's sharp gaze softened as his voice broke on that last word. "You're both such a mess," she told him, far more gently than anything else she'd said since first setting eyes on him. She reached over and squeezed his wrist for a brief moment of contact before pulling her hand back. "You really should talk, and I've told Eames as much, but I'm afraid you're only going to end up making things worse."

"Do you mean us? Or me?" Arthur asked suspiciously, even though he was greatly relieved to find that Ariadne was on his side. Nominally. So to speak.

She smiled ruefully. "Well, mostly you," she admitted. "But I'm well aware that Eames can completely screw things up for himself as well." She shook her head, looking surprisingly affectionate. "You're both such a mess. I don't know if there's any chance of the two of you working things out... but if you can, I think you'll at least be _less_ of a mess together."

"I just need a chance to talk to Eames," Arthur said urgently. "I know he might never forgive me, but I need to at least apologize. And I need to let him know--"

Ariadne raised both her brows in query. 

"Not what you're thinking," Arthur said regretfully, because if he was going to verbalize his feelings for Eames he wasn't doing it to her first, before speaking to Eames. But he hesitated to tell her everything, because he still remembered her reaction back when they had begun working their last job together, here in Paris.

"What is it?" she asked, tilting her head curiously.

Arthur looked at her. She was so tiny and seemingly delicate, but he knew how tough she actually was. She would do whatever it took to protect Eames, standing between him and any perceived danger like a ferocious mother cat with one large kitten. And that was a mental image that almost had Arthur snickering, despite the seriousness of their conversation, and the delicacy of what he was contemplating telling Ariadne.

"I've...." He drew a deep breath, and decided that since she already knew what he was capable of, it shouldn't hurt to inform her. Especially not when she could pass the news on to Eames, who _really_ needed to hear it. "Can you tell Eames that I've dealt with the men who attacked him in the dream-share? All but one, that it. Unfortunately, he's the most dangerous one. And I could really use Eames' help finding him. If he's up to it," he hastened to add.

Ariadne was nodding, and she did look a little pale once again, because she knew what "dealt with" entailed. But she'd obviously had time since the first time she'd heard about Arthur killing the men who'd come after him to come to terms with it. Her jaw firmed and her expression was a bit grim, but she was serious and steadfast.

"I'll let him know," she promised. "I think he needs to know. I can't guarantee he'll want to see you or talk to you, but...."

"I'm not asking for any guarantees," Arthur said. "I've made this mess myself and I'm the one who has to make things right. If I can. I'm trying."

Ariadne nodded again. "Is there anything else?" she asked, and she didn't sound completely unsympathetic. "I really ought to go get the groceries and get home."

"Is... is he all right?" Arthur asked, biting his lower lip so hard it hurt, his hands clenching in his lap. "I mean...."

"I think he will be," Ariadne replied thoughtfully, giving Arthur a strangely intent look. "Especially if he's willing to give you a chance to talk to him. Just don't fuck it up if he does, Arthur."

Arthur swallowed tightly, affected more by the thought of this than the fierce glare Ariadne gave him. "I'm going to do my best to make things right," he informed her, allowing some of the intensity he was feeling to creep into his voice.

"That's all anyone can ask," Ariadne said, not unkindly. Though this thought wasn't as comforting as it might have been.

***

Eames shouldn't have been surprised that Arthur had taken out most of the men responsible for his recent troubles. He was a little surprised that Arthur had shown up in Paris, but only a little. And he definitely wasn't surprised that Arthur had ambushed Ariadne nor that Ariadne had been willing to talk to Arthur.

He felt conflicted over hearing that three out of the four men who had strapped him down and tortured him in the dream-share were now dead. 

Ariadne, bless her heart, had left him alone to process this, tactfully going into her tiny kitchenette to make them dinner once she had communicated everything that Arthur had told her. Eames loved her more than a little for this.

Arthur had told her what he had done, forcing Eames to relive the terrible dream of torture and blindness, which Eames was mostly okay with. He might have been willing to tell Ariadne himself if he could have forced the words out. That Arthur had been willing to confess made things easier on Eames, as well as underlining how badly the man felt about his actions.

"I don't want you to think I'm taking sides here, because I'm not," Ariadne had said, her adorable little face adorably earnest. "It's up to you whether you forgive him or not, because you're the one he hurt. But I'm giving you my personal opinion, that Arthur is really, honestly sorry and really torn up over what he did. I'm only telling you that so that you can make an informed decision, not to try to influence you one way or the other."

Eames appreciated that, he really did, but it didn't make his choice any easier. And so he turned his thoughts instead to Arthur's actions _after_ he had invaded Eames' dream and after Eames had fled.

To hear that Arthur had already tracked down and killed three of the men responsible filled Eames with mixed emotions. His initial instinct was to get angry. Arthur hadn't had any right to do so. _He_ hadn't been the one they had damaged.... 

But then Eames recalled that his torture and blinding had been enacted in an attempt to discover Arthur's whereabouts, and he decided that maybe Arthur did have a stake in it after all, if not as much as Eames did.

Eames had also felt more than a little relief, knowing that most of the men who had hurt him were dead. He had to admit that he was still feeling a little weak and off-balance after what Arthur had done. It was probably better for him if he knew that the bastards were gone, rather than being there and killing them himself. That might well have proved to be too much for him. So, while he still felt that Arthur had been overly presumptuous, there was a large part of him that was grateful to Arthur for having dealt with it without getting Eames involved.

Getting on Ariadne's laptop, Eames quickly discovered that Arthur had killed the three men only after subjecting them to the same tortures they had inflicted on Eames. That was... a little disturbing, he thought. But it sent a clear message. It sent a clear message to Eames, that Arthur had been driven to extreme actions by what he had seen done to Eames, and it sent a clear message to whomever else had been involved in the Blaidd Drwg Corporation, that they shouldn't have fucked with either Eames or Arthur.

The thing that worried Eames the most, though, was that fourth man. The one Arthur hadn't found yet. The one Arthur had warned Ariadne was "dangerous". Eames wasn't stupid; he knew that Arthur would have been understating the matter while speaking to the little architect. So if Arthur told Ariadne that this fourth man was "dangerous", if he was actually asking for Eames' aid in finding and dealing with him, then that meant that this matter was well and beyond serious and into the realm of terrifying.

Completely aside from his feelings for Arthur, and his grudging but growing willingness to allow Arthur to ask his forgiveness and to begin to prove himself worthy of it, Eames was coming to think that he'd really better speak to Arthur. Because he needed to know what Arthur knew about this fourth man, and he needed to know that they were both safe from him.

This unknown, hired by the Blaidd Drwg Corporation, had targeted Eames, but only in an attempt to get at Arthur. Eames had no way of knowing whether Arthur was still in danger, but if this fourth man even suspected that Arthur had been involved in the three deaths -- and perhaps if he did not -- then Arthur would be in as much danger as Eames... if not more.

It wasn't as difficult as Eames had thought it would be, deciding to face Arthur again and speak to him. In fact, there was a large part of him that was aching to do just that. It wasn't a matter of swallowing his pride. Eames had no pride left, especially not when it came to Arthur. 

But he really needed to talk about this fourth man, and how they might find him and deal with him. Even more than Eames' relationship with Arthur, that was a priority. 

That was why Eames borrowed Ariadne's mobile to send Arthur a quick text, asking him to stop by the flat in an hour. Just enough time for Eames to clean himself up and get settled in his own mind, to find his place in his own skin.

And _that_ text and Arthur's immediate reply was the reason Ariadne opened the door to a brisk knock forty-five minutes afterward. Even though they both should have known better, even though they both knew Arthur and his punctuality better than that.

And just that simply, Eames made what was probably the biggest mistake of his life.

***

When Arthur arrived at Ariadne's apartment exactly fifty-eight minutes after receiving Eames' text to find the door hanging open, he felt his stomach give an agonizing wrench. He knew there was no way that either Ariadne or Eames would have left it like that, which meant that something was very, very wrong.

He had his gun out in a heartbeat, but it was too late; _he_ was too late.

There was very little damage done to the room itself, but there was blood on Eames' temple and he was lying on the floor, there was no sign of Ariadne, and as he threw himself to his knees next to Eames to check his pulse -- before he had even cleared the apartment because he was just that crazy stupid with worry over Eames -- Arthur thought that he might explode with rage.

The hell of it was that he was just as angry at himself as he was with their unnamed assailant. He had _known_. He had _known_ that the ghost wasn't just going to sit idly by while Arthur chased off after Eames' forgiveness. 

And the fact that Eames was already stirring, the fact that he was already regaining consciousness quickly, while it filled Arthur with a sense of relief almost as powerful as his anger and fear had been, was not what Arthur needed to be focusing on right now.

Because the ghost had his hands on Ariadne. It was all Arthur's fault for leading the bastard here. 

And now it was that much more vital that Arthur and Eames find him and deal with him quickly, immediately.


	6. Chapter 6

"This is all my fault," Eames repeated shakily, as Arthur wasted precious moments seating him on the toilet lid and wiping at the stinging cut on his head with a warm, damp towel. 

Arthur's lips were pressed thinly together, his eyes blazing with too many powerful emotions to catalog, and Eames thought that his hands were trembling where he was pressing on a butterfly bandage. It hurt like hell even though Arthur clearly tried to be gentle. Eames had taken a knock to the skull and he'd be lucky if all he had was a bruise. But it was less pain than he had suffered in the dream-share and it was far less than he deserved for letting their enemy get the drop on him and allowing Ariadne to be taken.

"It's actually my fault," Arthur said tightly, and his fingertips slipped down along Eames' jawline, which Eames felt to be more than a bit inappropriate given their current situation, but then they lingered over the pulse in his neck and he thought that he could understand Arthur's motivation after all. It was nice to be alive and nice to know that Arthur was glad he was alive as well.

"I'm the one who led him right here to Paris. To you," Arthur continued, his jaw clenching so tightly it looked painful. Eames was familiar with the expression, and he never liked to see it. Now was no exception.

"But it was Ariadne he took," Eames protested, because it was only the truth. "I should never have come here. If it weren't for me, she'd never had become involved."

"If I hadn't started killing the men involved in such a way as to make it obvious what was going on," Arthur put in, "This bastard wouldn't have gone after an innocent target. I should have taken him out first," he spat out, suddenly blazing with fury. It might have been frightening if it hadn't so clearly been aimed at himself. "I knew that, I knew it, but instead I went after the men who were easier to find. I was so _stupid_!"

Eames grimaced. He hated seeing Arthur castigate himself like this; especially when it wasn't really Arthur's fault, especially not when there was a better target for both their rage.

"Look, we can sit here and add cars to the blame train," he said, making a valiant effort at pulling himself together even though he felt like shattering to pieces, because Arthur was fragmenting before his eyes and one of them had to be strong. "Argue about who's more at fault when it's really both of us... or neither of us. But what we _need_ to do is to find this 'ghost' of yours -- of mine, of _ours_ \-- and we need to get Ariadne _back_."

Arthur stared at him a moment, wild-eyed, his hair in disarray where he'd been dragging his fingers through it, then he sucked in a great breath and nodded, snapping back into tight focus with an ease that made Eames a bit envious.

"You're right," Arthur ground out. "Of course you're right."

Even though the situation was dire, and his head was pounding, and he was consumed with agonizing fear over what might happen to innocent little Ariadne, Eames had to take a moment to appreciate the sight of Arthur's face. His features were pinched, he was clearly as upset and worried as Eames was, but he was beautiful. Eames had almost forgotten how beautiful Arthur could be. He wanted to be able to look at this face every day for the rest of his life, with the full force of Arthur's personality behind it, of course, and all for him.

That was why he had refused to give over Arthur's location, and that was why he had not regretted that decision even after the fact, when he'd found himself blinded in the dream-share. Because it had been worth it to keep Arthur safe.

Eames had no idea when Arthur had become so important to him, but his own actions had proved it to be undeniably true. He was just fortunate that Arthur was unaware of that part of this whole disaster.

"Did you get a look at him when he came and took Ariadne?" Arthur asked, washing Eames' blood off his hands at the sink even though he seemed reluctant to take his eyes off of Eames while he did so, craning to peer over his shoulder. Maybe he wanted to make sure Eames remained conscious and reasonably functional. It was a valid concern, but Eames was feeling more wakeful with each passing moment.

"Before he knocked me in the head, yeah," Eames replied, rising and rummaging through the startlingly full first aid kit Ariadne kept for some ibuprofen. He longed to take something stronger, but even though Ariadne had it, he didn't dare to fog his mind like that. So he'd have to suffer the headache. He knew that it would fade on its own given time; it was just the period in between that he was dreading. "He was... nondescript."

Arthur nodded grimly. He was standing too close and he placed a hand on Eames' shoulder, just resting it there, seeming to need to just _touch_. Eames.... And, well, if he was honest, Eames didn't really mind. He still wasn't sure whether they could make anything work, even friendship at this point, but he was pretty sure he'd already forgiven Arthur. Now wasn't the time to discuss that, though.

"I saw him in your dream," Arthur said, biting his lip sharply, and clutching at Eames as though he expected him to pull away. "Middle-aged, brown hair, regular features, completely...."

"Nondescript," Eames finished, while Arthur nodded ruefully. And Ariadne was in dire danger, but maybe they should get a few things settled between them before they moved onward. They didn't have time to discuss everything, but... "You should have just asked me, Arthur."

Arthur swallowed and he suddenly looked more broken than fervent. "I know," he replied, his voice crackling. "God, Eames, I know that now. I... I thought that you wouldn't be willing to talk to me, to tell me, and I made the wrong choice. I had no idea how bad it was, but I should have known better anyway, and I shouldn't have done what I did. I know... I know I don't have the right to ask you to trust me, now. But can I ask you to forgive me? Please?"

Eames was silent for a moment, taking this in. It was about the same thing Ariadne had communicated to him for Arthur, but it had so much more intensity, coming from Arthur's lips.

"I made the wrong choice," Arthur continued, his expression growing ever more frantic and his hand almost painfully tight, where he might not even remember that he was holding onto Eames. "But I know that now, and I don't intent to do it again. Ever."

Eames nodded, trying to find his voice when it seemed to have completely failed him. He wanted to reassure Arthur, but there was still that fear that Arthur could hurt him, worse than anyone else in the world could do. What would be worse, though; to live a life without Arthur in it, or to let Arthur into his heart and risk him breaking it...?

"I'm sorry," Arthur said simply, bowing his head and letting his hand fall to his side. 

"All right," Eames croaked, sounding like an idiot, but unable to remain silent any longer, even though it was painful forcing the words out through the lump in his throat. "It's... I forgive you, Arthur. If you'll forgive me."

"For what?" Arthur gaped, his head snapping up, so shocked by this request that he didn't seem to have yet processed the fact that Eames had forgiven him. 

"For running from the job in Paris," Eames replied, ticking off the things that had been bothering him. "For not giving you a heads-up that the Blaidd Drwg Corporation was coming after you, once I got away from them. For letting this ghost take Ariadne today."

Arthur's fine features twisted. "Eames, none of those are things to apologize for," he said with a certain amount of force "None of them were your fault. And I thought we were going to stop with the blame game."

"Right," Eames said, snapping back to the situation at hand. "We need to get Ariadne back and deal with this bastard once and for all."

Arthur nodded and moved as though to leave the bathroom, but then he paused. He turned and gave Eames a small, weak, almost shy smile. "Eames, I've... I know that I've got a lot of work to do to earn back your trust... but thank you, _thank you_ for your forgiveness."

Eames might have appreciated the quick embrace that Arthur subjected him to more if his head hadn't been one great throbbing ball of pain, but he was glad that they had evidently gotten things settled without any more fuss. And he didn't bother correcting Arthur, because he realized that it was true. He had already forgiven Arthur what he had done before the man had even asked, but the trust that had been between them... well, that was something that Arthur was going to have to regain. That wasn't something that Eames could just give him, no matter whether he wanted to or not.

Especially when he wasn't sure whether or not he wanted.

"We need to find this ghost," he said urgently, because as much as he was grateful to have Arthur back by his side, and as glad as he was to have gained this without too much of a fuss, there was something far more important than their feelings for one another. And that was getting Ariadne back safely. Especially since she had only been taken because Eames had fled to her.

No matter how Arthur tried to spin things, that was completely and one-hundred percent on Eames. He had done this.

Arthur nodded. "Do you have _any_ ideas?" he asked, leading Eames out of the bathroom and into the living area. There was a small bloodstain on the floor where Eames had been lying and the sofa had been shoved out of position, but otherwise there was nothing to say that Eames had been overwhelmed and Ariadne had been kidnapped. By one man, no less, and Eames felt a complete fool. If he'd been at full health, if he'd been alert the way he should have been, he'd have been able to take care of the matter right here, and things wouldn't have reached this level of fuckery.

"I've tried," Arthur continued, looking as unsettled as Eames felt. "I know what he looks like, of course. I've gotten a name, but it's the name of a dead man. He's a freelancer, working for the Blaidd Drwg Corporation, but I think by this point it's become personal. If I could just get one lead, I might be able to track him, but there's just nothing solid to get started with."

Arthur sounded so frustrated, and Eames could well imagine how this must have rankled. Arthur wasn't used to being thwarted in his search for knowledge. Especially not when it was this important.

"I think I know someone," Eames said, speaking slowly but thinking as fast as his poor rattled brain would let him. "He owes me a favour.... Of course, if he can pull this off, we'll both end up owing him. But it'll be worth it if we can get Ariadne back."

Arthur looked surprised, which was less than flattering, but then the expression melted into a combination of relief and determination. "Well, let's get on it, then," he said, his hands twitching as though to make an abortive move toward Eames.

Despite the quick embrace in the bathroom, Eames wasn't sure they were back to place where casual touching was allowed, so he was just as glad that Arthur refrained.

"Let's head to London, then," he declared. 

And to his credit, Arthur barely batted a lash at this, and he got them plane tickets in record time.

***

Eames' contact in London was... not what Arthur had been expecting.

Not that he was sure what he had expected. But whatever it had been, it was not what he got.

For one thing, Peter was young. Or, well, about the same age as Eames, which was younger than Arthur had thought for some reason. For another... well, he was undeniably attractive. With his bright, silver, cat-like eyes full of intelligence, his cupid-bow lips even more pronounced than Arthur's, his cheekbones like sharp slices of ice, and his curls caught somewhere between light and dark, he was striking, to put it mildly. He was also taller than both of them, not that this signified in any way.

Arthur wasn't sure what to make of the easy, friendly way Peter greeted Eames, with a tight hug and a warm kiss on the mouth, but he knew that he didn't like it, and he had to fight not to automatically dislike Peter as an extension. 

Of course, Arthur had no idea where he and Eames stood right now. It was true that Eames had accepted his apology, but were they still even friends, much less anything more? Or had Arthur only gained the right to begin working his way back into Eames' good graces... and his bed? 

Arthur wasn't sure how much ground he had lost, and finding the ghost and thence Ariadne was the priority here, so he knew he didn't actually have any right to feel resentful over Peter's familiarity with Eames. 

Still, right or no right, he couldn't help the low burn of resentment and possessiveness that settled in under his breastbone.

That wasn't helped along by the fact that Eames was perfectly willing to tell Peter pretty much the whole story -- leaving out the part where Arthur had forced him to relive the torture in a forced, violating dream -- nor the fact that Peter said, with a voice nearly as husky and soft as Eames', "Just leave it to me," in a tone of utmost confidence.

Then Peter disappeared into his back room, leaving the rest of his home to them, and Eames went into the kitchen to make tea, and Arthur felt the blade dig a little deeper when he realized that _Eames knew where everything was_.

"Were you two.... Did you used to be lovers?" he asked, where he was lingering in the doorway. He knew his arms were folded defensively, but he couldn't help himself. He'd barely gotten Eames back, in a manner of speaking. He knew that he should be solely concerned with finding and rescuing Ariadne, and yet to find such an unexpected rival here, in London....

Eames turned and gave him an odd look, as though he either shouldn't have asked or he ought to have known already. "Well, in a manner of speaking, I suppose," he replied diffidently. "But so long ago it doesn't signify. Why, are you jealous?" He asked that last lightly, as though it was a joke.

"I.... Yes," Arthur ground out, unable to be anything other than completely honest. He felt as though every layer between himself and his true feelings had been peeled away by recent events, and he didn't see any benefit any longer to hiding his true feelings. Trying to keep Eames at a distance would only end up hurting both of them in the long run. And Arthur had to prove to Eames that his feelings were real and permanent.

It shouldn't have hurt, Arthur supposed, that Eames looked so surprised by his reply. He couldn't decide which of them was more in the wrong, but he supposed it was probably himself. 

If he could start doing _anything_ right, any time soon, it would be nice, he thought bitterly. It would have been nice if he could have blamed someone else. The Blaidd Drwg Corporation, the ghost, even Eames himself.... 

But that last thought chilled him, and Arthur reminded himself of the fact that not only had Eames undergone torture for him and _not_ given his position away, but Arthur had then been so divorced from reality that he had suspected Eames of selling him out for money. That was all on him, and he only prayed that Eames never found out what Arthur had believed. The damage Arthur had done to Eames and their complex, fledgling relationship had already been devastating enough. If Eames _ever_ found out how little trust Arthur had had in him... well, how could _he_ ever come to trust Arthur, then?

"Well, don't be," Eames said mildly, and he was giving Arthur a strange frown that Arthur couldn't read. He did know enough to drop the subject, though. Now was not the time or place for the conversation they were eventually going to have to have. They were in Peter's home, they were trying to find the ghost before he harmed Ariadne, and they were both exhausted.

Arthur hadn't slept since he'd set out for Paris, looking for Eames. And Eames clearly had a splitting headache, even though he was doing his best to hide it. Arthur really wanted to suggest that they try to get a little sleep, but he also knew that neither of them would be able to do so. They were both wired on too much adrenaline and too much fear over what Ariadne might be going through _right now_ while they fumbled around in the dark.

Arthur felt his stomach twist, self loathing rising up to momentarily consume him. Ariadne had been taken as an innocent pawn by a man who had already proven himself to be completely ruthless, and Arthur was worrying about the history between Eames and Peter? What kind of asshole was he?!

"Here," Eames said, shoving a steaming cup of tea into Arthur's hands with a not unkind expression on his face. He had dark shadows smudged under his eyes, there was a purple knot rising on his temple, his hair was a wreck, and he needed to shave, but he still struck Arthur as the most amazing thing he'd seen since... well, since the last time they had been together before the ghost had gotten his hands on Eames.

"Sit down before you fall over," Eames instructed, and he looked concerned. Arthur bit his lip and did as instructed, because he suddenly felt as though his knees might well buckle under him. Eames had been through so much lately, most of it because of Arthur, and still he was looking out for him.

Arthur tried to pull himself together enough to instruct Eames to sit as well, but before the words could find their way from his brain to his mouth, Eames was slumped in the chair opposite his at the small, battered table in Peter's kitchen.

They sat in silence for long moments, and Arthur really wished he had something stronger than tea to drink, though he wasn't sure whether he was thinking of espresso or alcohol. Without those options, however, he sipped his tea, and it _was_ sort of bracing. 

"I hate this," he growled, clutching the cup, even though the ceramic was hot enough to sting his fingers. He used the slight pain to ground himself, to try bringing his scattered thoughts into focus. "I _hate_ just waiting, without being able to _do_ anything,"

Eames nodded, his lips pinched together tightly, his eyes burning in the sunken sockets. The time with Ariadne might have done him good, Arthur hoped it had, but he still needed to gain back a lot of weight. He was still Eames, but he had all too clearly been put through the wringer lately.

Well, Arthur mused bitterly, what else could one expect when a man had been tortured and blinded -- in the dream-share, but that didn't mean it didn't count -- robbed of his livelihood by the same experience, then betrayed by the very man he had endured the torture in order to avoid betraying.

Arthur had no idea how he could fix any of this, how to make any of this right, but he vowed that he would spend the rest of his life trying. He just hoped that once all of this was over, Eames would allow him to make the effort. 

"Peter is good," Eames offered, and if that was supposed to reassure Arthur... well, it did, a little. But it also made him burn with unjustifiable jealousy. "He's better than good."

"We've got so little for him to go on, though," Arthur said, knowing he sounded harsh and that Eames didn't deserve this, but unable to rein in his tone. "A vague physical description, a name that might or might not have been his before he legally _died_ , and the fact that he's got access to a PASIV device and knows how to use it...."

"That last narrowed things down considerably," Peter said, speaking unexpectedly from the doorway. If he hadn't been so exhausted Arthur might have jumped. If he'd been armed, he might have made quite a mess of Peter's genial hospitality. 

Peter smirked at him as he strode into the room, as though he had read Arthur's mind. Or more likely his body language, considering the way he had instinctively reaching for a sidearm that wasn't there. For some reason airlines frowned upon handguns, and he and Eames had come here straight from the airport, even though they both hated being unarmed when someone was after their hides.

"Is this him?" Peter asked, holding out a blown-up photo, printed on a sheet of paper.

"Yes," Arthur and Eames both snarled at the same time, in nearly identical tones of rage.

Peter nodded, his pink lips pursing. He really wasn't classically handsome, but he had charisma in spades and carried himself like a man who knew his place in the world and had utmost confidence that it was where he belonged. If he hadn't been so jealous, Arthur might have liked him... though he never would have been his type.

"I thought so." Peter slapped the paper down on the table and went to get himself a cup of tea. "I've worked with him in the past," he continued, before either of them could explode into questions or demands. "Quite some time ago, but he hasn't changed much; only gotten better. The name he goes by most often is Tailor, even though that's not his real name. You've gotten yourselves a very dangerous enemy."

"Tell me something I don't know," Eames growled.

"You do tend to collect the best around you," Peter said smoothly, leaning back against the counter and crossing one long, lean leg over the other. His gaze cut over Arthur and he smirked, not an unkind expression but Arthur bristled nonetheless. "Both allies and other."

"Are you counting yourself among that lot?" Eames queried, and if Arthur didn't know better he'd say they were flirting. But he knew Eames wouldn't be flirting when Ariadne was in the hands of someone so dangerous. And, well, hopefully not when Arthur was sitting right here.

"Of course," Peter said, and his smile really shouldn't have been attractive, the way it crunched his face up, but for some reason it was. Arthur could definitely see why Eames had been with him in the past, and he interrupted now before things could go any further down this road.

"He's technically _my_ enemy," he snapped, knowing he was being rude but not caring. "It was me he was after the whole time. Eames and Ariadne are just collateral damage. That's why I have to find him and kill him."

Peter nodded again, sobering immediately. "It won't be easy," he warned.

"I know that." Arthur scowled. "Look, you found the guy. But do you know where he is now? Because we've got to go and get Ariadne back before he does to her what he did to Eames!"

Eames shuddered, but his expression firmed to match Arthur's, determined and enraged. They couldn't forget what the stakes were.

Peter met Arthur's gaze steadily, not giving any ground. "Not yet," he replied calmly. "But now that I know for sure it's him, I'll have the information for you by morning. In the meantime I suggest you both repair into the guest room and try to get some sleep. Even if you have to dose yourselves. You won't do your friend any good if you're both falling over, and I promise to wake you both the moment I have a location."

Arthur grimaced and out of the corner of his eye he could see Eames' face drawing down in a deep frown, but Peter had a point.

"All right," he acceded, even though the words were bitter on his tongue. Wherever she was, he doubted Ariadne would be sleeping peacefully on a guest bed....

"Cheers, mate," Eames mumbled, and with a brisk nod and a mildly compassionate glance for them both Peter left the kitchen, taking his tea with him.

"I can... I can sleep on the sofa, if you like," Arthur offered, unsure of where he stood with Eames, whether the man would be willing to share a bed with him. Now or ever.

Eames blinked sleepily, then his brow wrinkled. "No," he rumbled, giving his head a quick little shake but his eyes never leaving Arthur's face. "No, I don't want to be alone right now. Please."

And that wasn't exactly a ringing declaration of love or even friendship, but Arthur felt his heart swell warm in his chest. That Eames would trust Arthur to lie beside him as he slept.... 

Well, it might not seem like much, but for Arthur it was a huge step in the right direction.

At this point he would take anything that he could get.

***

"Are you seriously telling me he's here in London?"

Eames couldn't really fault Arthur his tone of incredulity. He winced a bit at the hard stare the man was giving Peter, but then, Peter _had_ admitted to having worked with Tailor in the past, however long ago it had been, and Arthur didn't know Peter the way Eames did, so he could see where Arthur might suspect him of potential complicity.

It was completely out of the question, of course, but Arthur was missing that one piece of information about Peter that would have made this obvious.

Peter shrugged. "It _is_ his home territory. And I doubt he'd suspect Eames would come to me for help. Last he knew we were kind of on the outs."

"Is that what you call it?" Eames queried, raising one brow. 

Peter's smooth face wrinkled in a frown. "I told you I never cheated on you," he said mildly. They were so far beyond this that they might as well not talk about it -- and especially not in front of Arthur -- but Eames just couldn't let that go without comment.

"There are other ways of cheating than physical," he argued, trying not to sound snappish, because it had been a long time ago and they had both moved on. "And you were definitely emotionally involved." He sniffed. "With a _cabaret dancer_ , of all things."

Peter shrugged, evidently not willing to continue on the subject, which suited Eames down to the ground. He didn't need for Arthur to know he'd been cuckolded, even though it had been years upon years ago, long before Eames had ever met Arthur. Besides, he didn't like the way he couldn't read Arthur's expression as he listened silently and intently to them. 

"At any rate, we need to find Tailor, and we need to rescue Ariadne," Eames said, firmly setting the matter behind him. He and Peter had long since smoothed things over and were friends now, which hopefully Tailor would not expect. And that cabaret dancer was the reason that Peter owed Eames the favour he had just called in, so it all worked out in the end. One way or another.

"I can give you an address," Peter said, smoothly shifting subjects. He probably didn't want old emotions brought up any more than Eames did. They had been different men then, and they were very different men now. Eames was just glad that after everything they could still be friends; he couldn't really say as much about any of his other exes.

"But once I've given it over, don't expect me to be involved," Peter concluded. He looked rueful but determined, and Eames completely understood.

"I don't expect anyone other than me to be involved," Arthur said briskly, before Eames could even get his mouth open. Once he processed the words, though, his mouth fell open and stayed that way.

"What?" he blurted, eyes wide. Surely Arthur couldn't have meant that the way it had sounded, surely Eames must have misunderstood--

"I don't want you getting anywhere near this bastard, after what he did to you," Arthur said, looking at Eames with tight lips. 

Peter murmured something about getting that address for them and left the room. Eames appreciated the tact, even though it was mainly for Peter's benefit, to get him away from the pending domestic.

On the plus side, his quiet retreat distracted Eames enough that he had a moment to pause and recognize that Arthur looked as much afraid as he did determined. Perhaps Arthur was trying to deny Eames any part in this rescue attempt in an effort at misguided protection, rather than being worried that Eames would falter and let Arthur down during the rescue mission.

Perhaps.

"You told Ariadne you wanted me to help you," he came back with, low and intense. They were sitting in Peter's kitchen again, but it was morning and the remains of breakfast littered the table between them. They were definitely going to come out of this owing Eames' old friend, but that was all right.

"I wanted your help _finding_ him," Arthur said, his brow creasing. He looked a little better for the sleep they had gotten, side by side in Peter's guest bed. Eames had woken with Arthur's arm locked around his waist and Arthur's breath hot against his shoulderblade, and for a long moment he'd soaked in the sensation, before he'd recalled why it was so wrong.

But even after that... well, it had still felt good. He was glad that he'd forgiven Arthur and hoped that he could come to trust him again. Then he'd remembered Ariadne, what had happened and who had her, and he'd leapt up as though stung, startling Arthur awake.

"You did that," Arthur was saying, and he was gnawing on his lower lip in a way that looked more painful than endearing. "And I appreciate it. But I don't want to give him another chance to hurt you."

Eames sighed deeply, torn between feeling flattered and being infuriated. "You can't shelter me like that, Arthur," he said, maybe a little too sharply. "I'm a grown man who can make his own decisions, and it's _my_ fault he took Ariadne. I'm not going to let you go alone; it would kill me sitting around while you were putting your life in mortal peril. Absolutely no way are you going without me."

Arthur was going to argue, that much was obvious, so Eames continued, before he could say anything.

"If you don't include me, if you don't take me with you and let me have your back, then I'll be behind you, at your back anyway. What are you going to do; knock me out again? Tie me up? Peter's on my side. He's not going to help you keep me away. If you leave without me, I'll get the address from him and come after you. Don't you think we'd have a better chance going in together than separately? Friendly fire isn't the way I intend to die, and I doubt you want to risk it either."

Eames paused, as much for breath as anything else. He hadn't spoken so many sentences in a row in weeks. He could _see_ the conflict on Arthur's face, but he didn't regret anything he had said. It was all true, and he meant every word of it. 

"I...."

Arthur didn't seem to know what to say. Eames didn't exactly like to see him speechless, but he had more to say, so he took the opportunity.

"Look. What happened to me was shit, but it only affected me in the dream-share. Yeah, I'm a little rough around the edges but I'm all right. And I need a chance to get back at this bastard, to get revenge, as crass as that might be. I appreciate that you took care of the other three while I was out of the game, but I'm back in it now, and this guy _has Ariadne_. It's true that this all began because the Blaidd Drwg Corporation was looking for you, but it's become more than that. I got involved through no fault of yours. I don't blame you for that. But I _am_ to blame for the fact that Ariadne is involved. You can't tell me that's not a fact. So don't you dare try and keep me from coming with you. I need to get Ariadne back, I need to make sure you've got cover, and I need to _get_ this bastard."

"Forgive me for overhearing," Peter said, stepping into his kitchen, a small slip of paper with the most important information in the world on it in his hand. "But I have to point out that Eames is right. Besides which, there is no way that you'd be able to take Tailor out alone, no matter how good you are. With Eames by your side and my good advice... well, you just might stand a chance."

Peter paused and shot Eames an arch look, one corner of his mouth quirking in mild amusement. "And since when have you been so eloquent?"

Eames shook his head. "Must've rubbed off on me, the time I've spent hanging about Arthur." He held out a hand for the paper, pleased to note that it was steady, that he wasn't shaking. "You may not be willing to come with us, for which I don't fault you, but surely you can manage to procure us some weapons. Preferably the kind that shoot bullets at a high speed."

Peter's quirk widened into a grin. "I'll see what I can do on such short notice," he said dryly. Which Eames took to mean that they were going to be allowed to raid his private stash.

"Wait," Arthur spoke up desperately. When they both turned and looked at him silently, he glanced back and forth between them and sighed.

"All right." He looked at Eames. "I hope you have some good ideas." Then he looked at Peter. "And I hope you have some serious firepower for us. I've a feeling subtly won't serve us well here."

Peter smirked. 

"We're going to do this," Eames said firmly, in case there was any doubt in Arthur's mind.

"We're going to do this _right_ ," Arthur said, equally firmly.


	7. Chapter 7

"Eames, are you absolutely sure we can trust this guy?" Arthur asked, the first moment the two of them had some privacy from Peter and his overwhelming personality.

They had taken turns showering while Peter set up an impromptu "war bureau" in his kitchen. Evidently when he had said he wasn't getting involved he'd only meant he wasn't going along with them; he seemed perfectly willing to join in their planning.

Then again, seeing Eames wearing one of his dark sweaters might well have changed Peter's mind. It certainly was doing strange and yet not terrible things to Arthur's insides. As much as he simmered with jealousy over the fact that Eames was in Peter's clothing -- instead of his own or Arthur's, which last Arthur had actually managed to bring with them -- Arthur did understand the necessity. 

And... well, he had to admit that the sight of Eames sitting there, slimmed down and almost swimming in Peter's heavy, corded sweater made him want to bundle Eames up and keep him safe forever, and it made him want to jump him into the bed and screw him breathless, both in equally urgent parts. 

Of course, he could do neither of these things. Especially not when they had Ariadne to rescue. Especially when they were in Peter's guest room. That last may or may not have given Arthur pause, he actually wasn't sure. There was however, the question of whether Eames would even _allow_ Arthur to tumble him. Arthur still wasn't sure where he stood with Eames, and he didn't want to push beyond what was allowed. He didn't dare to.

"Absolutely," Eames replied, more quickly than Arthur liked, though the firmness with which he spoke the word eased Arthur's frazzled nerves a little. "Peter's good, Arthur. And it's been at least a decade since he last worked with this Tailor."

"It's not that," Arthur argued, shrugging into his jacket. He was wearing his own clothing, thanks very much, and he kind of hated that Eames now smelled like Peter, no matter how sexy and sweet he looked in the oversized sweater. If only Arthur had thought to lend Eames some of his clothes before Peter had done so. "I've worked with villains in the past too. You trust Peter, but people change, Eames. You know that. Hell, we've both changed since we first met."

That was something of an understatement,; not one he minded making, though. 

Eames set his lips in a way that Arthur knew well and recognized, even before he shook his head stubbornly. "For the better, Arthur. We've both changed for the better. And so has Peter. You trust me, don't you?"

He spoke the sentence as though it was nothing at all, but it stabbed Arthur right through the heart. He fought to keep his reaction off his face, but knew he wasn't completely successful, considering the curious, confused frown Eames gave him.

He trusted Eames.... God, he could trust Eames not to give him away under _torture and blinding_! He only wished that he had earned Eames' trust in return, instead of proving himself to be a complete bastard and betraying that trust. In more ways than one, and that made it even worse.

"I trust you," he gritted out, appalled by how anguished he sounded as he spoke the words, and trying to rein his tone in as Eames' brows rose. "Of course I trust you," he continued a little more evenly. "But Peter isn't you. And no matter how much _you_ trust him, that doesn't convince me that _I_ can trust him. Those are two different things. I'm not questioning your knowledge of him or refuting your assurances; but that's just the way it is, Eames."

Eames was still frowning at him, but he nodded slowly. "I understand how you're feeling," he said slowly. His goose-egg had gone down but he still had a huge bruise and an angry knot on his temple, and Arthur felt chilled at how close he had come to losing Eames... again. A little harder blow, or an inch to one side or another, and Arthur really would have gotten to the apartment too late.

That wasn't something that bore thinking on, however, so he shoved that aside for now.

"But we _can_ trust Peter," Eames continued decisively. "Now, let's go out into the kitchen and allow him to prove it to you."

Arthur tried to quell his sigh, though from the exasperated glance that Eames shot him he suspected that it had slipped out. Still, they did as Eames had suggested, because despite what Eames might think, Arthur was perfectly willing to be convinced.

He was ready to do whatever it took to get Ariadne back and get this settled once and for all, so that he could begin to win Eames back. 

After Ariadne's health and safety, that was his highest priority. Ariadne came first, though. Because she was their friend and she should not have become involved in this. Arthur still blamed himself rather than Eames, even though he knew that they both had a point, but mainly he just wanted to get her back, to see her safe.

He wasn't going to rest until this was accomplished. And he knew that Eames felt exactly the same way.

***

"Do you have to be at work or anything?" Eames belatedly asked Peter as the three of them convened together in the kitchen. After all, he and Arthur had kind of descended on the man out of the blue, the same way Eames had done to Ariadne.

That reminder hurt, because if not for Eames, Ariadne wouldn't be involved in this. Neither would Peter, true, but Peter wasn't in imminent peril the way Ariadne was.

"It's the weekend," Peter replied easily, as though Eames ought to know that, as though he hadn't been working in a profession that made weekends pointless for almost as many years as they had known one another.

"Ah." Eames got himself some tea.

"Look, Peter," Arthur said, and Eames could almost have laughed at the way he probably thought he sounded reasonable but how he only sounded bullheaded. "Eames says I can trust you. And I want to trust you. But with my friend in danger and Eames' life on the line as well, I just need more than that. I'd... I'd feel better if I at least knew _how_ you'd found Tailor, when every time I tried I came up with a dead end."

Peter loosed a little chuckle that meant he wasn't offended, not that Eames had thought he would be. "I could point out that you both came to me and that I'm helping you despite the fact that it would be wiser not to make an enemy out of Tailor," he said, perfectly smoothly and politely.

Arthur shook his head, his expression stubborn. His hair was back in place and he was put together, ready for anything. This was the way Eames liked to see him. Of course, he also liked to see Arthur covered in sweat and come, hopelessly debauched, his hair in wild disarray... but now was most decidedly _not_ the time for that. Instead, Eames poured Arthur a cup of tea and listened to him talk.

"That's a non-issue," Arthur was saying, "Because if you give us good information we're going to be taking him out. After all he's done there's no way I'm leaving him alive to come after us again."

"Mm." Peter gave this a moment's thought as Eames handed Arthur his tea and they sat at the table with Peter. It was strewn with photos, maps, floor plans, and not a few firearms. "Granted. All right. When I said that I'd worked with Tailor, I meant a good ten or eleven years ago. That was all. But we've kept tabs on him since then."

"We've?" Arthur brows rose, and of course he hadn't missed that.

Peter smirked. "Eames didn't tell you who I work for?"

"That's classified information," Eames felt the need to put in. "You know damned well that you could have me legally shot if I told anyone. Even Arthur."

Peter chuckled again, but Arthur looked confused and he was growing angry; not surprisingly, seeing as he didn't like being left out of the loop, so to speak.

"I work for the government," Peter said bluntly, meeting Arthur's gaze without hesitation. "In a very... secure branch. Not one that is officially recognized. That was how I was able to get the information on Tailor so quickly, once I knew who I was looking for. We keep track of everyone who works in the dream-share, in any trade. Extraction, prostitution, gambling... even the legitimate uses. Anywhere in the world."

Arthur looked a little stunned, but he processed it quickly enough because he was Arthur. He nodded, features firming. "All right. That makes sense."

"Peter has a lot of clearance," Eames put in, feeling as though he needed to justify himself even though he really didn't. "But it's dangerous for him to use it. If anyone found out, it mightn't be just his job that he lost, if you know what I mean. That's why I'd never ask him to help with something like this... if it wasn't for Ariadne."

"Right," Arthur said shortly, but he seemed to be frowning about something else as he turned his full attention on Peter. "Does this mean you have a dossier on Eames?"

Peter actually laughed, not unaware of the tension crackling in the kitchen, but obviously not really caring. "Did have," he verified, giving Eames an arch look. "Back when he was young and careless. It has since vanished, and no one has been able to assemble a new one."

Eames felt a little smug at this, even though it was as much Peter's doing as his own that he'd managed to keep himself clean. As soon as Peter had given him a heads-up about that secret file on him that had gone missing, he'd realized that he was going to have to be much more careful, and so he had done.

"What about me?" Arthur challenged. It was a fair question. After all, he worked in the dream-share too.

"Well." Peter smiled at him, and it was an open, honest expression, causing Eames to realize that Peter _liked_ Arthur. Not that it mattered, but since they were two of the small handful of people that Eames considered to be something approaching friends, he was happy to recognize this fact. Not to mention, the three of them were going to be working together to rescue Ariadne. "There might be a rudimentary sort of file on a shadowy figure who is only known by one name... but I've a strong feeling that it will shortly be dealt with by the same wily agent who disappeared Eames' file."

"Is this... is this enough for you?" Eames asked Arthur uncertainly, shoving up his oversized sleeves and reminding himself to get into a shirt that fit before they made their rescue attempt.

Which they really needed to get onto. Because the conversation they'd just had, as short as it had been and as important as it might have been, had only taken away time they could have used to go after Tailor, to get Ariadne back.

"For now," Arthur replied, and Eames couldn't help rolling his eyes, but Peter didn't seem to mind. Generally speaking, Peter really was willing to put up with a lot of shit; something he had in common with Arthur in better times.... Eames wondered uncomfortably if he could pick out any other similarities between them if he put his mind to it, but there wasn't time for that now. Not when they still needed to make their plans, much less implement them.

"Any ideas?" Eames said, picking up the nearest piece of paper to hand, staring at it blankly and trying his hardest not to think about what Tailor had done to him and what he might be doing to darling, innocent, little Ariadne. Sinking fear and rising rage clashed in his stomach and he fought down a sudden wave of nausea. They had to get Ariadne back, and they had to do it _soonest_!

"I was thinking of Hansel and Gretel," Peter said smoothly, smiling and reaching over to squeeze Eames' wrist briefly. The touch was warm and it grounded him better than any empty platitudes of optimism might have in this moment. Though he'd have preferred if the touch had been from Arthur.

"Hansel and Gretel?" Arthur didn't sound happy, but not being in control of a situation always did that to him. At least he also sounded curious, and he had _said_ he was willing to trust Peter... at least for the moment. "You mean like a trail of breadcrumbs in the forest?" 

"I was thinking more along the lines of that final shove into the oven," Peter said, with a rather feral gleam of teeth and a predatory flash of silver eyes.

"That's something we can work with," Eames nodded, setting down the paper he'd been holding and resolving not to waste any more time on emotions or useless words. It was time for plans and then for action.

"It's something I can definitely get behind," Arthur agreed, reaching over the floor plans and photos and clasping Eames' hand, not tightly but firmly. He looked as determined and angry as Eames felt.

And all three of them shared a wicked smile, though it was somewhat bitter on the part of two of them. Because Tailor still had Ariadne, and that was something they were going to have to change.

But they _were_ going to change it, and as soon as possible.

***

"You know, Peter, you're making it a little difficult for me to trust your word," Arthur said, his tone very nearly light, as the two of them made their final preparations.

They were still standing in Peter's kitchen and instead of the photos and papers on the table, it was now covered in firearms and explosives. Arthur and Peter were arming themselves whilst Eames changed into some of Arthur's clothing in anticipating of their heading out.

Peter was still a little shocked that Eames was small enough to fit into this Arthur's shirts and trousers. Granted, Eames had been pretty slim back when he and Peter had first met and fallen into bed together, almost ten years ago. But that had been a long time back, and Eames had put on muscle since then. Peter knew this because even though they didn't see each other often, they did stay in touch, from time to time.

Besides which, Peter had seen every photo of Eames that had come across his desk before he had disposed of them. Eames tended to fluctuate between wiry but fit and bulky, sliding easily through all sizes in between. He was more skinny now than Peter had seen him since.... Well, since the both of them had been ten years younger. Peter wasn't sure it suited him now the way it had then, but it wasn't as though it had been deliberate. After hearing what Tailor had done to Eames, Peter could hardly blame him for being stressed out. And as he already knew, when Eames was under pressure he tended to forget about important things such as eating and sleeping.

"How so?" he asked Arthur curiously, loading a gun and sliding it into the holster resting smoothly under his jacket.

Arthur was something of a cypher, not that Peter would have expected anything else from the man that Eames had evidently given his heart to. He tended to downplay it and underestimate himself, but Eames was a startlingly complex person, and that was something that had always alternately fascinated and irritated Peter, back when they had been sleeping together. He rather suspected it was the same with Arthur.

That they were on the outs, at least partially, was obvious. But it was just as obvious to Peter that whatever problems there might be between them, they were already working their way through them. Maybe the two of them didn't even realize this, but it was perfectly clear to Peter. He wondered if he ought to enlighten them... but, honestly, it was best just to stay out of such things. Arthur wouldn't accept advice from one of Eames' ex-lovers, and Eames had never liked it when anyone tried to tell him what to do, even when they had his best interest at heart.

"Well," Arthur was continuing, and for a man who was riding the edge of the adrenaline knife, he really was exquisitely handsome. Peter could see what had attracted Eames to him, though he was just as certain that it was the brilliant mind behind the lovely face that _kept_ Eames captivated. "When you first got us Tailor's address, you said that you weren't going to help past that point. And yet now here you are, ready to come with us."

Peter nodded. "True, but incorrect," he said, amused by the way Arthur arched a brow at him. "What I said was that you couldn't _expect_ me to become involved. I never said I _wouldn't_ get involved. And you had a good point. If you're planning on taking Tailor out then I've little to no reason to fear reprisal from him, and so becoming involved holds no danger for me. Well, as long as my boss doesn't find out."

Though, personally, Peter thought that George would be just as glad to have Tailor gone as Eames and Arthur would be. There was definitely some bad blood there, and George of all people could understand when something was personal. That was probably why the man had given Peter permission to take a few days off, even though he _had_ to have been aware that Peter had been snooping around in Tailor's files.

"Besides," Peter added, because he wasn't going to share any of that with Arthur, but there was something else that was bothering him, "I looked up your budding architect, and...."

"And?" Arthur prompted, when Peter paused.

"She's completely innocent," Peter said bluntly, knowing that his tone of voice was giving away more than he meant it to, but trusting Arthur not to use this against him in the future. "Not to mention beautiful, talented, intelligent, and _young_. She doesn't deserve to be in the hands of a cruel, selfish, ruthless bastard like Tailor."

He couldn't verbalize the wrench in his chest when he had seen a photo of the petite brunette, smiling in the Parisian sunshine, but it was affected him more than Eames' desperation or Arthur's rage. And it didn't matter that he and Ariadne had never met, or that they might not even get along when they did; Peter had one goal in mind.

"I'll do what I can to help you with Tailor," he told Arthur firmly. "But my main role in this is to get Ariadne free of him and safely back to her home."

Arthur nodded, his expression thoughtful. "Don't get the wrong idea," he warned. "Ariadne might look like a teenager, and she _is_ small, delicate, and young. But she's not a child. And she's strong. Stronger than us, in a lot of ways." He frowned, then, his brow furrowing in a way that made him look both younger and older at the same time, much like his description of Ariadne. "She _is_ innocent, though. She sticks to largely legitimate jobs, as you probably already know. And she's only involved in this because she knows us, and that's not something that we can let slide."

"She's involved because of _me_ , you mean," Eames said miserably, returning to the kitchen. He looked good, though nowhere near as neat in Arthur's kit as Arthur looked. But at least he was ready to go, wasn't still swimming in Peter's jumper.

All of them were wearing dark colors, and were going in well armed. Peter wasn't sure that this attempt was going to go smoothly, especially not when they were coming up against Tailor, but he was intent on playing his part. Which was to snatch Ariadne from under Tailor's nose. He would trust both Arthur and Eames to take care of themselves -- and one another -- as they tackled Tailor. He didn't feel that this was unreasonable; in fact, he was pretty sure that it was what they were all expecting.

"Eames," Arthur said, sounding equal parts exasperated and mournful, his features reflecting this as he turned to fix his bright brown eyes on Eames.

"There's no sense in assigning blame," Peter put in crisply. It wasn't his place to comfort Eames, nor did they have _time_ for comfort or coddling. "We need to deal with this situation, whatever the events were that led up to it. Every moment we spend talking is a moment that Tailor has to prepare his defenses. We're hoping and assuming that he'd not as deeply entrenched as he might be, because he has no way of knowing that you would come to me and we would pin him down so quickly, but we can't be sure of this."

Eames was nodding, his face firming, while Arthur slid closer to him and wrapped a tentative arm around his waist. 

"You're right," Eames said, biting his lip and straightening his spine. Peter felt a quick twinge of regret over what had happened between them, so long ago. But their time was past, and at the beginning and end of it they just hadn't been compatible, despite how good they had been together for a brief period of time. Eames was ridiculously handsome, no matter that he sometimes tried to hide this fact, and he was an amazingly complex and intriguing personality, but he belonged to Arthur now. And Peter was fine with this.

Not that it would have mattered if he hadn't been. He could already tell that Arthur was the possessive type. Right now he was glaring at Peter, but looking a bit grateful at the same time.

"Now," Peter said, touching on the only part of the plan that they had not already covered several times over. "How am I going to convince your Ariadne that I am there to help her? Since, in theory, the two of you are going to be dealing with Tailor at the same time I am freeing her."

"Ooh," Eames exhaled, eyes rounding. "You're right."

"Tell her," Arthur spoke up, his jaw clenching and his eyes intense, "Tell her that the reason I kissed her on the hotel level was because I was jealous of Eames hitting on Robert."

Peter smirked.

"It was for a job, you arse," Eames told him, scowling fiercely as he walked away from the arm Arthur'd had around his waist, and moved to choose his own weaponry from the table. Arthur looked momentarily distraught, but then he simply looked determined. Peter gave him very good odds of winning Eames back... once this was all finished, of course.

Joining Eames at the table, Peter shook his head. "I realize that," he said mildly. "It would have to be, considering that you're ferociously loyal once you've committed yourself to someone."

Eames flushed and ducked his head, but the tips of his ears were pink, giving him away.

"We weren't together yet, at that point," Arthur seemed to feel the need to point out, even though this might not have been wise. 

"Doesn't matter," Peter said dismissively before they could start to get into the finer details of Eames and Arthur's relationship, because there certainly wasn't time for that. "We've got something that will prove to Ariadne that I've come from you, which is the important thing. Now, we have to get going if we want to reach Tailor's place by sunset."

"Right." Both Arthur and Eames nodded, and once Eames had chosen his firearms and Peter had stashed what remained, the three of them piled into Peter's car. They were as ready as they were ever going to be, and nothing would be served by further conversation or prevarication.

Honestly, Peter couldn't be sure what was going to happen, whether Arthur and Eames would prove to be better together than Tailor was by himself. Tailor was older than they were, he was wily, and he had years of experience and government training to back him up. But Arthur and Eames had passion, they each had some government training of their own, and they were seeking revenge, which was a not inconsiderable motivation.

If he had to, Peter would have put his money on Arthur and Eames, and he certainly wished them success, but he was only in this for Ariadne.

If he could do this one thing, he'd be doing a world of good. And so he was going to do nothing less than his very best.

And this was as much for himself as it was for Ariadne, if not even more so.

***

 _"We weren't together yet,"_ Arthur had said to Peter, regarding the Fischer job. Eames was... surprised, to say the least, to hear that Arthur considered that they had ever _been_ together. 

He wasn't sure whether he found the reality of Arthur saying the words to be comforting or terrifying. So instead, he opted to go over the plan in his head as Peter chauffeured them toward Tailor's family manor.

They didn't have time to go with anything too involved, and so they were heading right there, and they were going to have to go with brute force rather than finesse.

"Tailor is going to be trusting to the security of his walls and the assumption that you won't have tracked him down yet," Peter had explained to them. "If we give him time he'll undoubtedly get in snipers and the lot, so we mustn't allow him the time. As it stands, I have the locations of all his most recently planted snares and traps around the grounds, so we should be able to get in without blowing ourselves up or maiming ourselves."

Not exactly reassuring words, but Eames hadn't thought that getting Ariadne back was going to be easy. He was tremendously glad that Peter was willing to come with them to rescue her, leaving he and Arthur free to deal with Tailor, because if they'd had to concentrate on Ariadne first, Tailor might well have escaped. And then they'd have had to track him down all over again, watching their backs the entire time, all without the invaluable benefit of Peter's inside knowledge.

Of course, Eames was thinking about all this as though their success was a foregone conclusion. But he kind of had to, right? He certainly wasn't going into this assuming they would fail! Besides which, it was the three of them. Arthur and Peter were two of the most ruthless, efficient, brilliant bastards Eames had ever had the pleasure of knowing, and while Eames might be blinded in the dream-share, and while he might have dropped a little weight and lost some muscle mass recently, he was no slouch in the "riding to the rescue and dealing with the bad guy" arena.

Besides, someone had to be there to make sure Arthur didn't take any crazy chances. Generally speaking Arthur was calm and steady and he tended to overanalyze everything before he got involved. But hurt someone he cared about, kidnap a close friend, make it personal in any way, and his rage tended to rise up and overwhelm his better judgment.

Eames found it to be unbearably sexy, true, but it also worried him, which made him even more determined to be there next to Arthur every step of the way.

Besides which, this was _Eames'_ vengeance to exact. It had been Arthur that Tailor had been after, when he had taken Eames into the dream-share and tortured him, but it had been Eames who had been damaged, who had been rendered blind in subsequent dreams. Even though that had not been Tailor's intent, Eames was under no illusions as to the man's true nature. There was no reason to believe that Tailor wouldn't have killed Eames or kept him prisoner to use as a tool against Arthur once he'd done extracting the information he'd been seeking. If Eames hadn't escaped he'd be dead by now... or else he'd wish that he was.

It was all so ironic, when one considered that Tailor was only a freelancer who was contracting out to Blaidd Drwg Corporation. All of this could have been avoided if they had done their own dirty work, or if Tailor hadn't been so zealous in earning his pay. Or if Arthur and Eames hadn't split up in the first place....

Well. There was no use in thinking on what might have been. Everything that had happened had led them to this point, and there was no way of taking any of it back. It couldn't be undone, it could only be fixed. This meant rescuing Ariadne foremost, and executing Tailor immediately after. In fact, their intent was to do both these at the same time, thanks to Peter deciding that he _could_ become involved after all.

Eames really appreciated that last fact. It might well make them even for the thing with the cabaret dancer... not that Eames was still holding a grudge. Ancient history, that was. They had both moved on. But it had enabled Eames to call in a favour, which in turn had impelled Peter to help him, so it was all good.

Now, the important thing was to make sure that everyone made it out alive. 

Well, everyone but Tailor, of course.

Eames had mixed feelings about the fact that Arthur had taken out the other three men involved. He probably would have liked to have dealt with them himself, but he hadn't been in any fit state to do so. And it was Tailor who had been the worst offender, the man who had masterminded it all, and it was Tailor who they were on their way to deal with, possibly to confront, though Eames thought that both he and Arthur would be just as happy if they managed to kill him from a distance.... Eames would be, at any rate. Arthur had proved to be a little more ruthless and far more vindictive.

Not for Eames, tying the man down and doing to him what he had done to Eames in the dream-share. He was aware that this was how Arthur had dealt with the other three... but somehow Eames didn't feel as though it was going to help him in any way to recover, enacting the same tortures on another human being. Even a man who was a pathetic excuse for a human being, a slimy bastard who was willing to put out Eames' eyes with his own hands, who would kidnap a completely innocent young woman with no connections to the whole thing except for her unfortunate soft spot for Eames....

"You're thinking too much," Arthur murmured in Eames' ear, and he came to awareness to realize that Arthur was leaning in close and holding one of his hands. Firmly and warmly, but not so tightly that Eames couldn't tug away if he wanted.

He didn't want.

"I know I am," he replied, sighing and feeling a bit weary, despite the adrenaline that was still surging through him with the knowledge of what he was going to be doing shortly, the chances he was going to be taking. He was risking Ariadne and he was risking Arthur. He couldn't bear it if he lost either one--

"Hey," Arthur murmured, leaning over to nuzzle Eames' cheek with the tip of his nose, not a kiss but a sweet moment of restrained intimacy. "Relax. It'll be okay."

"I know," Eames replied again, even though he knew nothing of the sort. Because he wanted to believe Arthur. Because they were both going to do everything they could to make things okay. And because whatever happened, they were in this together.

"I've got your back," Arthur told him earnestly.

"As I have yours," Eames replied. And where they were headed... well, that was just going to have to be enough.


	8. Chapter 8

Ariadne was peevish. She was comfortable, she supposed, inasmuch as one could be comfortable when one was handcuffed to a bed, but the fact remained that _she was handcuffed to a bed_. 

She realized that feeling peevish was a hell of a lot better than being in terrible pain or otherwise physically aggrieved. But it was hard to keep that in mind after she had been here for at least an entire day. Her arms were extended, cuffed to either side of the frame independently, and she supposed she was fortunate in that they weren't being held above her shoulders, but she was stuck in a reclining position, and it had stopped being comfortable after less than an hour.

Like the bed, the room Ariadne was in was opulent but everything was dusty and worn, as though it didn't see much use or upkeep. It was certainly not anything she had been expecting when she'd been taken at gunpoint from her apartment.

Well, to be fair, the gun hadn't been pointed at _her_ , at least not at first. The man who had invaded her home and knocked Eames unconscious hadn't had to manhandle or bully her out the door. All he'd done was to threaten to shoot Eames as the man lay helpless on Ariadne's floor.

Ariadne hadn't doubted for a moment that he would do it if she refused. She couldn't be sure that he wouldn't do so even if she complied, nor could she be sure that he wouldn't turn the gun on her after all. But the uncertainty was better than _knowing_ that Eames was dead because she'd been defiant. So she had gone quietly and, thankfully, he had not shot Eames at any point on the way out.

Her captor had been polite and soft-spoken for the most part, with a soothing accent and an almost charming smile. Not that Ariadne had forgotten for a moment what he had done to Eames in the dream-share. Or that he had done so to try and find Arthur so that Blaidd Drwg Corporation could assassinate him. 

She was so furious at him on both her friends' behalves, but she had tried to squash that down and had done her best to be a model hostage because she wanted to _live_ through this, to give Arthur and Eames their best chance to rescue her.

That they would come for her, she had no doubt. She only hoped that Eames wasn't too badly hurt. Head injuries weren't something to just be shrugged off, like they were in the movies, and if he had been hit hard enough....

But she had to remain optimistic, had to think positive. And even though things were pretty damned dire, and she suspected her simmering rage was masking some very reasonable underlying fear, giving in to negative emotions wasn't going to help anyone. At least no one but her captor, and she didn't intent to give him any more satisfaction than he was already taking from this whole thing.

She hated his smug face, hated that she hadn't taken the opportunity to punch it in before he'd gotten her in the cuffs, but she was grateful that he hadn't done anything horrible to her. She was hungry and dehydrated, since he had stuck her on this bed and left her here once they'd gotten to England -- in a private plane, so she hadn't had any chance to try to escape -- but she was kind of glad for the latter, all things considered. He'd allowed her one final chance to use the toilet before chaining her to the bed, thank God, but if she'd had anything to eat and drink... well, it had been probably close to eighteen hours since that point, so she'd have been in trouble.

In the greater scheme of things, wetting herself wouldn't have been the worst thing that could happen, but it still would have been pretty humiliating. She hadn't seen hide nor hair of her captor since he had put her here, so hadn't had a chance to demand food, water, another bathroom trip....

"Fucking asshole," she muttered under her breath, scowling darkly at the door. She's gotten a little sleep, but it hadn't been easy, propped up against the pillows with her arms stretched to either side of her and her wrists chafing. While she was grateful that she wasn't being taken into the dream-share to be blinded, hadn't been tortured while awake to provide recorded screaming to warn Arthur and Eames off, or anything worse, the sheer _boredom_ , as well as the low-lying but unfading fear and anxiety she was experiencing now would kill her yet, she swore.

Not literally, of course. And she was still worried about Eames and scared for what might happen to him and Arthur when they came after her, but....

"God!"

"Not quite."

She could admit it; she loosed an undignified squawk, and flailed, and if she _hadn't_ been dehydrated she might well have peed herself, as a tall, lean man with slanted silver eyes, impossible cheekbones, and faintly hawkish features suddenly appeared beside the bed she was chained to.

"Who the hell are you?" she snapped, which may have been less than gracious, but her heart was currently trying to pound its way out of her ribcage, and _she was handcuffed to a bed_ so she thought that she could be forgiven for being a bit on edge.

"Peter," he replied succinctly, which was enlightening not at all. But then he added, "I'm here in lieu of your friends, as they strike at the head of the serpent."

"Seriously?" Ariadne couldn't help laughing, shaking her head. Problem being when she stopped, her head still wanted to keep on spinning. She felt as though she was feverish, had felt it for a while now, but she figured that was more likely due to the lack of food and water than the rather patently ridiculous words of this stranger. "You _must_ be a friend of Eames."

Peter smiled, and he looked suddenly far more approachable, but Ariadne had the slowly growing fear that she might be in the dream-share, that her captor might be trying to extract from her, and she regretted mentioning Eames. 

"It's all right," Peter said gently, as though he was reading her mind. That should have made it worse, but for some reason his deep voice soothed her, made her feel unaccountably safe. "I'm here from both Arthur and Eames; though, as you guessed, it is Eames whom I know better. As proof of my authenticity, Arthur said to tell you that the reason he kissed you on the hotel level during the Fischer job was because he was jealous of Eames hitting on Robert."

"Psht!" Ariadne scoffed before she stopped to think. "Like I couldn't figure that one out myself!"

Still, that was something that her captor couldn't have known -- no one but herself and Arthur knew about the kiss, and no one outside their team could have seen it happen -- so she now _mostly_ trusted that this Peter had come to her from Arthur and Eames, as he had said. Either that or he was her own projection, and she wouldn't have anything to fear from her own projection.

Though she sincerely hoped that he was not a projection, because she'd really like to escape.

"They _are_ a bit besotted, are they not?" Peter remarked conversationally, but his attention was on her right wrist where it was cuffed to the bedframe. His bangs fell in a fringe over those cat-like silver eyes, and Ariadne thought that he was really quite good looking, for an older guy. Now might not be the best time to notice something like that, but if not now, then when?

"Eames taught me how to pick locks," Ariadne said, knowing she sounded whiny but unable to help herself. She'd been chained down here for an entire day or more, and she really, _really_ wanted to get free. "But I didn't have anything to use, or any way to get at them."

Peter raised his head, grinning at her. It shouldn't have been a particularly reassuring expression, but Ariadne was actually somewhat used to that feral, self-congratulatory look. Mostly on Eames' face -- before he'd fallen into the hands of her current captor -- but Arthur had worn it a few times in the past too. 

"Oh, I have ways of dealing with such things," Peter murmured, reaching behind him, underneath his jacket, and hauling out a small but wicked-looking set of bolt cutters.

Ariadne laughed again, and twisted her hand out of the way as well as she could while he sliced his way through the first handcuff chain. It let out a loud crack and Peter swore, but Ariadne's hand was suddenly free, and that felt better than almost anything ever had.

As Peter moved around the foot of the bed, headed for the second cuff, there came the sound of an explosion, somewhere else but not far. His head came up, alert, as Ariadne blurted, "What was that?"

"Molotov cocktail," he answered succinctly, striding more quickly. "Let's get going and get out of here," he said as he cut through the second cuff quickly and skillfully.

"Sounds good," Ariadne said, rubbing at her sore forearms, though she avoided touching her wrists, as they were both badly chafed. It hurt to move, but it felt so good to be _able_ to move.

When Peter offered Ariadne a hand up off the bed, she really wanted to refuse and do it herself.... But she really wasn't capable. In fact, she didn't know whether she'd be able to walk out of this place, wherever it was. At least Peter looked strong underneath his slick, dark suit. Lean but wiry, the way Arthur was, only he was taller than Arthur.

"Thanks," she said grudgingly when he helped her up. Which was probably a little rude considering that he was here to rescue her and he didn't even know her, but she hated seeming so weak in front of a stranger. Never mind that she had a legitimate reason for feeling weak.

"There's energy bars and water in the car," Peter said, his brow wrinkling slightly as she swayed. "And we can get you out of those pretty bracelets there as well."

"While we wait for Arthur and Eames to join us?" Ariadne wanted to know, staggering as she took a step. Peter cupped one large, sturdy hand under her elbow, sliding the other smoothly around her waist, and with his support she managed to make it across the room _mostly_ under her own power.

"That's the plan," Peter replied, giving her a quick smile that didn't look convincing, but which wasn't insincere. He was a bit contrary, she thought foggily, as her head began to spin. But that was okay. Eames was.... So was... so.... Ooh. Maybe moving hadn't been such a good idea. She'd been doing all right on the bed, but--

"Whoop!" Peter caught her as her knees gave out. Her ears were ringing, but Ariadne thought that she heard another not-quite-so-distant explosion as Peter hefted her into his arms.

"Let's get out of here," she mumbled, wrapping her arms around his neck without an ounce of hesitation. There was no way he was a tool of her captor, and she doubted her own brain could have come up with someone this unique, which meant he must be real and must be really here. If he was real, then he really was a friend of Eames', and that was good enough for Ariadne. It might be stupid, but she trusted him.

"An excellent idea," Peter rumbled, and then with minimal effort he carted her out of captivity and into sweet freedom.

***

"How is this like Hansel and Gretel again?" Arthur couldn't help asking, as he lobbed their second flaming bottle into another window.

"Well, that was the kitchen you tossed the first one in," Eames offered, grinning, his eyes gleaming as things inside the building ignited and burned. He looked so alive that Arthur really regretted bringing him; he still thought that he would work better for knowing that Eames was safely tucked away somewhere....

But this was Eames' revenge to claim, and Arthur couldn't deny the man that.

"How is that even slightly relevant?" he asked, glancing around before gesturing for Eames to follow him as they dashed toward the manor library. According to the floor plans and Peter's knowledge of the snare traps and other defenses, this was the one weakness the building had. Well, apart from the side door in the guest wing, where Peter had presumably entered and then exited with Ariadne already. Arthur sincerely hoped that the man was as competent and trustworthy as Eames seemed to believe him to be. He hated leaving that to a near stranger, even though he understood the necessity.

"The kitchen has the oven," Eames offered, pressing up against Arthur as they crouched under the window to the library. Arthur hated climbing in through broken windows, but Tailor hadn't left them with many options. He'd modified his ancient family home into a veritable fortress, and it had taken them hours with the best information the government could clandestinely gather to figure out their best approach.

"That's really reaching," Arthur said, but he was a little distracted, sweeping the lawn for any sign of external defenses. Just because Peter's best information hadn't indicated any, that didn't mean Tailor hadn't put some into place since arriving here the day before.

Arthur was incredibly grateful they'd been able to act so quickly. Otherwise Tailor would have had time to prepare and to do God-knew-what to Ariadne. And that first was daunting and the latter was unthinkable. 

"Well--" Eames began, but then broke off. "My arse just buzzed," he announced gleefully.

"Thank God," Arthur breathed, feeling a knot inside his chest loosen. That meant Peter had just texted the phone that Eames was carrying, letting them know that he'd gotten Ariadne and that the two of them were safely out of the manor. Now Arthur and Eames were free to do whatever they needed to in order to deal with Tailor.

"I want to come out of this alive," Eames said, as Arthur weighed their options, "I want us both safe and whole, and I want Tailor dead. But knowing that Ariadne will be okay is absolutely the bottom line."

Arthur nodded absently. He understood what Eames meant, even though he didn't one hundred percent agree. Although he felt the same guilt Eames did for getting Ariadne involved in this, to him keeping Eames safe was just as important, if not more so.

Then again, he might be a little biased.

Taking the chance, he stood and peered through the library window. There was no one in the room, at least not that he could see, and so he took out the window, hoping that the sound of breaking glass might be lost in the sounds of destruction coming from other areas of the manor. He was pretty sure that their first Molotov cocktail had blown up the gas-line in the kitchen, because the explosion had been a bit extreme. So maybe Eames did have a point about the oven.

The library windows were the only ones without bars, which meant that Tailor might well know they would be entering this way. But, as noted, these _were_ the only unbarred windows, so they hadn't been left with much choice.

Arthur made sure to enter first, his weapon drawn and his every sense at the ready. There were no lights on, and they were in Tailor's home. Arthur knew the floor plan, inasmuch as he could memorize such a large building in the short time they'd had to prepare, but he didn't have years of actual experience living in the place like Tailor had. Not to mention, he had no real idea where most of the furniture and other fixtures were. Directly in front of him was a desk, and that certainly hadn't been on the floor plans.

"Clear?" Eames breathed, behind Arthur.

He gave a clipped nod, because if it hadn't been he was pretty sure one of them would have had the top of his head shot off by now. Tailor wasn't the type to hesitate, and they had already set two sections of his home ablaze. Not to mention they were here to kill him, and if he didn't already know this, he would as soon as he saw them.

Now that they were inside, the smart thing to do would be to split up. There were really only three options for what Tailor would be doing right now. He was too smart to try to put out the fires; even if it had been possible at this point, he valued his hide more than one of several ancestral homes. That meant that either he was going to be heading for the garage in order to make his escape, he was on his way to the wing where he'd been holding Ariadne if he felt he still needed her as a hostage badly enough, or he was headed for _them_. 

Arthur supposed that there might be other possibilities. There were always other possibilities, and people had a way of surprising even those who knew them well. Just look at how shocked he had been to discover Eames' rampant loyalty. That Peter had already known about it rankled a bit, but Peter had known Eames when he had been younger and, presumably, less guarded.

Still, given what he knew of Tailor, and factoring in the information Peter had supplied, Arthur thought that their best chance of finding him was to head for the garage. If Tailor was coming for them, they'd meet partway there. If, as Arthur hoped, he was trying to escape with or without Ariadne, they had a better chance of coming up behind him and taking him by surprise.

Arthur had tied down and tortured the other men, the same way they had done to Eames. The irony was that now he was after the mastermind, the one who was the most responsible for the horrors enacted on Eames in the dream-share, and he was really hoping to end it with one quick bullet to the skull. But he'd kind of vented most of his immediate rage on the other three men, and Tailor was too dangerous to prolong this, to do anything but take him out as fast as they could.

That was why they _ought_ to split up, one of them heading for the garage and one for the wing Tailor had been holding Ariadne in. But that wasn't a part of the plan. Because Arthur couldn't stand the idea of Eames walking around in Tailor's home, all alone, without anyone watching his back. And when he had stated as much, though more diplomatically, Eames had agreed. Evidently he didn't want Arthur to be without back-up any more than Arthur wanted him to be.

Which meant that they had to make a decision.

"Garage or guest wing?" Arthur whispered, not wanting to make the choice without Eames' input.

"Garage," Eames answered decisively. "Whatever plans he had for Ariadne, they're blown now. He has to know it's us, so he probably won't even bother trying to go and grab her. And if he does, he'll find her gone and head for his vehicles, in which case we might just have time to get into position and take him out without a fuss."

Arthur thought that this last was unlikely, but he agreed with Eames' logic, and so he nodded again, and took point as they headed for the library door.

One way or another, they were going to end this before the next dawn. And Arthur had only one intention as to how this was going to end.

***

Eames ought to have been more anxious than he was, he supposed, but instead he felt a strange sort of exhilaration.

When he'd first been captured and tortured -- the former in reality, the latter in the dream-share -- he'd been too rattled to do anything afterward but pretend things were normal, without much success. When Arthur had invaded his sleep and forced him to relive that same torture, he'd fled and hidden because... well, he couldn't have done much against Arthur, nor did he feel as though he could face the other man.

Now he had a true villain, he had a clear-cut goal, and he had Arthur by his side. He was beginning to feel like himself for the first time since Tailor had slowly and almost courteously pushed the knife blade into his eye sockets in the agonizing, horrifying dream that he couldn't be sure at the time wasn't actually reality.

Eames would do whatever was in his power to make sure that Arthur came out of this whole and intact. He still felt a little disturbed over what Arthur had done to the other men who'd been involved in torturing him and he hoped he wasn't planning the same for Tailor. But Eames had faith. He had faith in Arthur and in them both, working together. They were _going_ to do this, and they would be triumphant, and then....

Well, then they would work things out. One way or another. And there was no point in getting ahead of himself, even though he was already fairly well convinced of their coming success.

It was with this near-euphoric feeling of optimism in his mind that Eames forged onward, gun in hand and murder on his mind. Or, well, assassination. That sounded better. Less crass. Less as though Tailor might not fully and resoundingly deserve to die.

And it was here, making his way deeper into Tailor's home, Arthur's narrow but powerful back before him, and the certainty of triumph in Eames' heart, that everything all went to hell.

In retrospect, he probably should have expected it.

It was humiliating, really, how easily he was surprised and overwhelmed... but the plain truth of the matter was that he hadn't been taking care of himself lately, and, well, it was possible that he wasn't really one hundred percent recovered from the knock on the head he'd taken, no matter what he'd told Arthur and Peter.

He'd been following Arthur down a dark hallway, gun in hand, allowing Arthur to take point because it meant that Eames had Arthur's back, when suddenly a door to his right slammed open and two hard hands had closed on his shirtfront, dragging him through into the room beyond whether he willed or no. Which, naturally enough, he didn't, but he wasn't being given a choice.

Eames liked to think that if his head hadn't slammed into the doorjamb on his way in, right in the temple that was still badly bruised, he might have been able to fight back, wouldn't have gone reeling into a waiting chair with stars bursting before his eyes and pain exploding in his head.

He was only incapacitated for one minute, tops, but that was long enough for Tailor to lock the door behind them both and then descend on Eames where he sprawled on the chair, lashing him to it with rope in a hurried but effective manner.

At least, Eames assumed that it was Tailor. He couldn't see a thing. Since he doubted he had been unaccountably struck blind in an instant, he could only think that there were no lights on in whatever room he was in. There were still red and golden sparks dancing around his vision, but that was from the hard knock he had taken to the head, as the pain piercing its way through his skull attested.

He tried to process what had just happened as he tugged at his bonds. They were tight, if a little sloppy, and Eames wondered whether Tailor had on night-vision goggles or if he was just familiar with his own home and that good at knots. He also wondered why Tailor hadn't switched on the lights, but there could be any number of reasons; the electricity might have gone out, this room might not be wired for it, or it might be a method of intimidating Eames.

If it was the latter, then it was working disturbingly well, bringing back powerful memories of the first time he had "met" Tailor....

"You know," a smooth voice murmured, close to Eames' face in the darkness, and it was definitely Tailor; Eames would know that voice blindfolded... or, well, _blind_ , "I don't recall inviting you into my home."

"But you did," Eames replied, almost surprised to find he was still capable of forming words. He felt breathless, his heart pounding against aching ribs, his throat was tight, but he was holding off on panicking.... Barely. It would serve nothing here, even though he was strapped to a chair, surrounded by darkness, and at Tailor's complete mercy, just as he had been in the dream the man had dragged him into.

"When you kidnapped Ariadne," he continued, knowing that Tailor could hear the strain in his voice, but striving to speak evenly nonetheless, "When you brought her here, that was our invitation. You can't possibly have expected that we wouldn't come after her."

Tailor let out a small huff of air, too refined to be a snort. "I suppose you have a point," he remarked conversationally. "Still. You've done quite a bit of damage. So perhaps it's time I make a point of my own."

And Eames could have sworn he felt his heart stop in his chest, his blood freezing in his veins, as the unmistakable sensation of a knife blade pressed against the delicate skin stretched over his eye socket. There was a hot trickle of liquid down his cheekbone, proving both that his blood had actually not frozen and that the knife was very sharp, and Tailor let out a soft chuckle that reminded Eames of when they had been here before.

"Do you know how easy it would be?" Tailor asked, the knife sliding closer, a little more deeply into Eames' flesh. The pain of it was secondary, though, to the fear that was rising in him; and it was the very real terror that he would lose his eyes _now_ as much as it was the horrifying memory of when this had been done to him in the dream-share. 

Only now he wasn't drugged and confused as to whether he was dreaming. Now he _knew_ that he was awake, and Tailor was threatening to render him blind in reality as well as in the dreamshare.

Eames didn't have any answer to that, his pulse racing, his tongue swollen in his mouth, but before Tailor could continue, there came a sudden sound of breaking glass and the whoosh of rapidly accelerating flames where Eames assumed the door to be. He thought that he could even see a faint rectangular outline in that direction, but that might have been wishful thinking on his part.

What he could be certain of, was that Arthur was doing his best to rescue Eames. It was a desperate move, as he might be trapping Eames in here with Tailor, giving them both no way out. But Eames trusted that Arthur remembered the floor plans well enough that he wouldn't have set the door on fire if it was the only exit. 

"Dammit," Tailor hissed inelegantly though his teeth, and Eames gasped as the knife blade abruptly left his face. "I am going to go and deal with that little fucker. You can stay here and burn," he growled.

And just like that he was gone. Eames still couldn't see a thing, but the room must have a second exit, since he was obviously alone in it now. With fire licking at the door and.... Oh! And the light but unmistakable weight of the knife Tailor had been wielding, resting on his lap. The man must have been in such a hurry he had dropped it, Eames realized.

Now, if only he could overcome the panic that was threatening to rise up and engulf him as he sat here, completely engulfed in darkness, ropes tight around his body, and blood streaming down his cheek. He needed to battle his way through the memories that threatened to drag him down and mire him in agonizing paralysis. He needed to get _moving_.

Wrenching himself out of the internal nightmare was the first thing he would need to do. And even though he was securely tied down, it might well prove to be the hardest. 

***

Arthur could not possibly have been more furious and terrified at once. 

When they had been trapped in the dream-share with Fischer and the threat of limbo had been hanging over their heads, he'd still had faith in his and Eames' ability to pull it off. 

When Eames had fled after Arthur had invaded his dream, Arthur had known that the man had at least left under his own power. 

When Ariadne had been kidnapped, Arthur had been horribly worried, but he'd known he was going to rescue her before too much time had passed.

It was true that he'd felt this same gut-wrenching, nearly debilitating fear when he'd seen Eames lying on the floor of Ariadne's apartment with blood at his temple, but that had been short-lived, had largely dissipated when he'd been able to rouse Eames to consciousness almost immediately.

Right now he had no idea where Eames was or whether he was even still alive. He knew which door Eames had vanished behind, but he knew nothing else, except that their enemy now had his hands on Eames again. And that was intolerable.

The door was too thick and heavy for Arthur to even consider breaking it down, once he'd tried and failed to pick the lock. Tailor had clearly jammed the lock, and that didn't bode well for Eames. Not that anything about this situation did, of course.

So Arthur did the only thing he could think to do; retreated down the hall to a safe distance, then lit and tossed his last Molotov cocktail at the door. 

The wood was old and dry, and it went up admirably. In fact, one could say the same thing about the whole manor. Arthur had no doubt that he was destroying antiques and precious items that were invaluable and irreplaceable, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Rescuing Ariadne, and now Eames, and killing the man who had take them captive; those were his only goals. 

Fear for Eames had scattered Arthur thoughts, made it hard for him to focus, but he did his best to bring up the floor plan for the manor in his mind. He thought he recalled that the room Tailor had pulled Eames into had a second exit, a secret panel behind a bookcase, that came out--

"Fuck!"

Right behind where Arthur was standing! A fact that he recalled just one second too late as wiry arms closed around him, a hard, unforgiving grip locking around his arm and swinging his hand into the wall violently enough to numb his fingers. He was able to tear himself away within moments, but he had involuntarily dropped his gun.

He had other weapons on him, of course. Other firearms. But that would require that he reach for them, and since he was now staring down the unblinking black barrel of Tailor's own gun, he didn't dare. One glance at the man's steely hazel eyes warned him against twitching so much as a muscle.

"You've done quite a number on my ancestral home," Tailor remarked, almost conversationally. There was a stiffness to his square jaw that indicated he was more angry than he appeared, but Arthur wasn't intimidated in the slightest. He just needed to figure out a way to kill this man and get to Eames.

"You have others," Arthur replied, his voice cold, because ranting about Eames and what Tailor might have done to him was going to get him nowhere. "And pretty soon they're all going to passing to your next of kin, anyway," he couldn't help adding.

"Ah." Tailor's thin lips twitched in a small smirk, quickly vanished. "I would suggest a gentleman's agreement; I leave you alone from here out and you leave me alone. But somehow I doubt you'd go for that."

As though Arthur believed for a moment that Tailor had enough honor to uphold any such agreement. But that wasn't the main issue. "You tortured and blinded Eames," he snarled.

"In the dream-share," Tailor huffed, waving his free hand as though it had been nothing at all. And for him it probably had been. "It was a job I was hired to do," he verified. Then his expression hardened. "And your hands are hardly clean. You tortured and killed the men I was working with."

"That was for vengeance," Arthur replied stonily, refusing to feel bad, and refusing to let Tailor bring him down to his level.

Tailor honestly snorted this time. "Is that any better than doing it for money?" he asked scornfully. "Especially when you did it in the real world, not in the dream-share. Eames was alive once I was done with him. Those three men are not."

Arthur bristled at the censure in Tailor's voice; especially since he was pretty sure it was merely put on. As though Tailor cared about those three, as long as he didn't end up like them. 

"Don't act as though you give a fuck what happened to them," he commanded. "And don't sit there and try to tell me that you wouldn't have killed Eames once you were through with him if he hadn't escaped."

Tailor gave that little smirk again, then flinched minutely as something crashed loudly, elsewhere in the manor. The place really was going to be destroyed, and Arthur was acutely aware of the flames crackling behind him, trapping him here before Tailor's gun, eating their way into the room that Eames might still be locked in.

"Where's Eames?" Arthur demanded, ready to be done with this pointless banter. Tailor might be the one holding a gun on Arthur, it might be his home that was burning down around them, but Arthur was truly the injured party here. Arthur and Eames.

"Tied to a chair in the room you just set on fire," Tailor replied equably, and now his smile seemed genuine. "I never did have anything against him, you realize. In fact, I rather liked him back when he was practically a child, before he took a new name and began working the wrong side of the law. Unfortunately for him, Blaidd Drwg Corporation hired me to find _you_ and he is just about your only weakness."

Arthur was just gearing himself up to leap at Tailor, his brain not really functioning past the part where Tailor had said Eames was tied up in a room that was on fire, when there came a hoarse shout from behind him.

"Arthur, down!" Eames barked, and without thought, responding immediately, Arthur hit the floor.

The sound of gunfire exploded in the hallway, nearly deafening, and Arthur was rolling to the side then bouncing to his feet immediately, raising his backup firearm.

It was Tailor, though, who slumped against the wall and then down to the floor, an expression of mingled surprise and annoyance on his face and a neat bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Arthur spun, already reaching for Eames. Eames looked a little worse for wear in the lurid light of the dancing flames, with blood running down his cheek and a rapidly blackening eye, but he was on his own two feet and it was the gun he was holding that had brought Tailor down. Most importantly, he wasn't sporting any bullet holes of his own.

"Let's get out of here," Eames said harshly, even though he moved readily enough into Arthur's embrace.

Something else crashed, much closer now, and Arthur bit back anything he might have been going to say. They had done what they had set out to do, Tailor was dead, and the manor was burning down around their ears. It really was time to get the hell out of there.

And once they were out of the building, Arthur could trigger the explosives he had set around the perimeter, and blow the place to kingdom come. 

After all the damage that Tailor had done to them both, but mostly to Eames, Arthur felt that it was the least he could do.

***

"I just don't see how the plan was anything like the Hansel and Gretel fable," Ariadne was saying, sipping from her third bottle of water, her eyes fixed in the direction of the manor, where the sky glowed a fierce red. 

If nothing else of the plan worked, Peter was confident that they'd set the place on fire. Now he just had to wait to see if the two men showed up at the vehicle. If they weren't here by dawn, Peter had instructions to take Ariadne back to his place... but he wasn't so sure that this would be as easy as Arthur had seemed to think it would be.

"It wasn't much like the fable at all," Peter readily admitted. "But it makes people feel better if they can put a label on something. I wanted to give Eames something he could hold onto when he was facing the man who'd done him so much harm, both in and out of the dream-share."

Ariadne nodded slowly. She'd had some food and a lot of water, and she was clearly feeling better, but she still had quite a bit recovering to do. Peter was relieved that she hadn't been physically assaulted in any way, but the neglect she'd been subjected to hadn't been much better. It was good that they'd been able to come after her so quickly.

"They're going to be all right, aren't they?" she asked anxiously, her face twisting in an expression of concern. Actually, Peter was a little glad that she was dehydrated and weak with hunger; otherwise he strongly suspected she might have insisted they go back and help. And then they would just be getting in the way. Not to mention, she'd be putting herself right back in the line of danger.

He was just opening his mouth to reply, to reassure her all over again, when a series of huge explosions went off, so large that they actually shook the car slightly. 

"What the hell?!" Ariadne gasped, dropping her water and grabbing at both the dashboard and Peter's shoulder. 

"That's either very good news or very bad," Peter said. He couldn't really offer her anything more comforting; either Arthur had set off the explosives on purpose, or the fire had finally reached them and detonated them, possibly while Arthur and Eames were still in the house. What he _could_ say was, "We should know which within a minute or two."

And he was correct in this, as two soot-smeared figures approached the secluded spot he had parked. Proving that they had been successful after all.

Peter could hear them arguing even before they reached the car, so he kind of assumed that everything had gone well if maybe not to plan.

"Really, Arthur, you're overreacting," Eames was saying as the two of them tumbled into the back of the car, rocking the entire vehicle, even more than the explosions had done.

"First aid," Arthur demanded, clipped and clearly on the verge of snapping from either anger or fear.

"For fuck sake, I told you I'm fine," Eames protested, as Peter wordlessly handed back the small first aid kit he'd used to treat Ariadne's chafed wrists.

"He almost took your eye," Arthur ground out, and Peter could sympathize with his stressed tone and trembling hands as he pulled out gauze and disinfectant. "For real, in the waking world."

There was indeed a distressing amount of blood running down one side of Eames' face, but both eyes were intact and were rolling at Arthur, even though Peter felt that might be something of a tactical error at this moment. Still, Arthur wasn't _his_ lover, nor was Eames. Thank God.

"I'll head us in the direction of home, then," Peter announced cheerfully, starting the car and already thinking about what he was going to cook for Ariadne while she used his shower and got into some clean clothing. Arthur and Eames both reeked of smoke and blood, but they could wait. It was ladies first; especially when said lady had been cuffed to a bed for eighteen hours or more.

"Hey, guys, good to see you, I'm fine thanks," Ariadne said loudly, but she was grinning as she said it, and there was a sparkle in her eyes that it warmed Peter's heart to see.

The damsel had been rescued, Eames had gotten his justly deserved revenge, the villain was dead, his lair destroyed, and they were all going to go and have a lovely dinner in good company.

Sometimes, Peter mused, as Arthur and Eames both babbled their apologies and Ariadne fussed over them both in turn... sometimes things really did work out as the fables promised.


	9. Chapter 9

"So, why is it that I was the one who was kidnapped and tied up, and yet Eames is the one who looks like he's been through the wars?" Ariadne asked, pausing on her way to the table to kiss the crown of Eames' head through his damp hair. Honestly, it seemed to be the only spot above his collar that wasn't damaged.

One side of his face was completely bruised up, with a knot still on his temple where she remembered her captor -- Tailor, she had learned, but he was dead now -- having struck him down in her apartment. His eye on that side was puffy and half-lidded, though not completely swollen shut. He'd said he'd had a rough meeting with a door frame, though Ariadne was still waiting to get the whole story. His other eye was fine but there was a nasty slice almost the length of Ariadne's pinkie finger running alongside it, from just outside the tip of his eyebrow to the top of his cheekbone. It was probably going to scar, but it was a clean cut and it would look more rakish than anything else, she thought.

"To be fair, I was tied up as well," Eames told her, grinning in a muted fashion. Whether that was due to the pain in his face, fogginess from the pills Peter had given him to dampen said pain, or wariness over Arthur, who looked as though he was a single one-liner away from exploding, Ariadne wasn't sure.... But she knew she sure as hell didn't want to be the one to set Arthur off.

"How'd you get out?" she asked curiously, seating herself at the table and sipping her tea. 

They were collected in Peter's kitchen, seated around his table, a delicious meal in their bellies. Everyone had bathed -- Arthur and Eames had showered together; not to much to save time or water, but because Arthur couldn't bear to let Eames away from his sight for even a moment -- and Ariadne kind of felt that this was their version of an informal debriefing session. Though, really, it was more just a group of very unusual friends gathered together and catching up on the crazy adventures they had all been engaged in recently.

Ariadne had more catching up to do than the others, which she thought was kind of annoying. But then, she was the one who'd spent the last day chained to a bed. At least she was feeling better now, after a shower, a change of clothes, and with some food and water in her. She wasn't going to ask where Peter had gotten the sweater and pants she was wearing; she was just sure that they weren't his, considering that she was tiny compared to him and the clothes were only a little too big.

And... well, it did feel a little weird to be sitting here in a room with three males when she didn't have on any underwear, she had to admit, but she trusted them all. 

Besides, Arthur and Eames were completely gay for each other, even if one or both of them identified as bisexual, and she could already tell within a few hours of knowing him that Peter was a complete gentleman. Not that the other two weren't, of course, but she _knew_ Arthur and Eames, and she knew that she could trust them. 

Hell, she'd been sharing her bed with Eames, back in her apartment in Paris. Which... hm, she'd better never mention that to Arthur. He was obviously the jealous type, now that he'd decided to stop living in denial.

"Tailor ever so conveniently dropped a knife in my lap on his way out of the room," Eames said, explaining nothing at all, really, because what?

"He did?" Peter arched an elegant brow, evidently as confounded by this as Ariadne, but in a far more British way. "Sloppy of him," he remarked evenly.

Eames chuckled. "Well, to be fair, Arthur had set the room we were in on fire."

"Ah," Peter said. Arthur twitched, but remained silent, sitting still beside Eames, one of Eames' hands clutched tightly in his own.

"Man, you guys got to have all the fun," Ariadne bemoaned. Then she shot Peter a guilty glance. "Not that being swept off my feet by a tall, dark stranger wasn't equally exciting, in its own way."

"Don't you go getting any ideas now," Eames warned, but he was grinning at her and she didn't read any actual disapproval in his tone or expression. She pulled a face at him anyway, and determinedly did not meet Peter's eyes because her defenses were all down and she could feel her cheeks heating up in an uncontrolled blush. She really was going to have to get some sleep soon if she was going to be dealing with such roguish men.

"Getting shot at and knifed and nearly exploding are not 'fun' things," Arthur put in tightly, and Ariadne grimaced. She _really_ hadn't wanted to be the one to set him off.

"It's all over with, though," she said, hoping to ease a little of the tension that was tightening the skin around his eyes and making his shoulders look as though they were going to end up around his ears. "Everyone is okay, the bad guy is dead, Saito is going to finish the job Arthur started on destroying Blaidd Drwg Corporation, and we're all here, whole of limb and sound of mind."

Eames' brow was furrowed in a frown, and Ariadne thought he might protest her rosy assessment of the situation, given that he looked a bit as though his face had gotten run over, but he only said, mildly, "Perhaps not sound of mind, love. Recall that I may still be blind in the dream-share."

"Do you want to try it now?" Peter surprised everyone by asking. Or, well, Arthur and Eames looked surprised, so Ariadne thought that it must be surprising that he owned a PASIV device. She'd kind of assumed that they'd known him through the dream-share, but maybe not.

Actually, she kind of suspected that Peter and Eames might have been more than friends... once. Peter was being completely hands-off and letting Arthur do all the fussing over Eames, but she had seen his slanted silver eyes fixed on Eames with an intensity that she hadn't quite expected. They obviously weren't lovers now, but she'd be shocked if she were to find out that they had never been.

Which would definitely make Peter bisexual, because she might be woozy and need sleep and more food, but she was _sure_ that she wasn't misinterpreting the looks that he was giving her from time to time. Polite but interested, she was certain of it.

She was flattered, especially considering that she'd looked less than her best when they had first met, but she hadn't yet decided whether she returned the interest, mild though it might be. Peter was gorgeous, it was true, and he wasn't as much older than her as she'd thought at first, but she got a powerful sense of danger whenever she looked at him. Controlled, true, but coiled like a spring, ready to burst into action. She didn't feel that she'd seen even a portion of what he could do when he'd come to rescue her. This might have made him even more tempting to some women, but Ariadne was more pragmatic than that.

Well, she shouldn't get ahead of herself. Just because he liked what he saw enough to have come to her rescue, that didn't mean it went any further than that. And she wasn't going to make _any_ major decisions without a good night's sleep.

Speaking of which, it had to be getting close to midnight, if her internal clock wasn't completely screwed up. A glance at the clock on Peter's ancient stove confirmed her guess.

"No, not now," Eames was saying, and Ariadne felt as relieved as Arthur looked. She _did_ want to know, wanted to find out whether Eames would be able to forge anymore, but....

"I'd rather just finish here and get some sleep," Eames continued, looking a little shamefaced but mostly tired. Peter had brewed a pot of tea that they were all sharing, but it wasn't enough to keep them from weariness now that the adrenaline was gone.

"So how was it you got out of the room that was on fire?" Peter asked, sipping his steaming beverage and quirking a brow at Eames. He was the only one of them who didn't look completely exhausted, which Ariadne thought was a little unfair. But, on the other hand, none of this was his situation, and he'd involved himself solely out of the goodness of his heart... and possibly due to his previous relationship with Eames.

"Well, there were no lights on, so I was completely in the dark," Eames said, grimacing, and Ariadne couldn't help imagining what it must have been like for Eames. Blind and in pain, blood streaming down the side of his face.... It must have been far too much like the dream in which Tailor had blinded him, and it made her heart hurt to think about it. He seemed largely okay now, but she noticed he wasn't any more prone to leaving Arthur's side than Arthur was to leaving his. And neither one was inclined to let go of the other.

"Tailor had taken a hidden passageway out," Arthur added, and he hadn't been talking much, his tone harsh when he did, but he seemed to calming down now. A little. A very small amount. "It was behind a bookcase."

Eames frowned faintly and nodded, his lower lip plumping. "I had no clue as to that," he said, taking up the narrative once more, "Since I couldn't see. So once I was free of the ropes, I went out the window. Fortunately, the bars were moveable from the inside, or I'd have been fucked. Then I cut around outside to the closest door as quickly as I could, and kicked it in. By that point there was no more reason for stealth, and I had to get to Arthur."

"Once we made sure Tailor was dead," Arthur put in, calmly enough, though Ariadne could see his knuckles white where he was clutching Eames' hand, probably painfully tight but Eames didn't complain, "We got the hell out and set off the explosives."

"So now we should all be safe, right?" Ariadne asked. It was true that it had been Blaidd Drwg Corporation that had started it all, but Tailor had been the most formidable adversary. She knew that Saito would be discrete enough that the collapse of the company shouldn't be traceable back to either Arthur or Eames, so....

"You ought to have been safe from the beginning," Eames said shamefacedly, and with his beat-up features he looked very hangdog indeed. Instead of agreeing with him, even though what he was saying was pretty much true, Ariadne experienced the powerful urge to hug him tightly. 

And since he was right there and they'd all narrowly avoided death, but some more narrowly than others, she braved Arthur's displeasure and rose to do just that.

It was awkward hugging Eames when he was seated and she was standing, but she had to do it. He was bony in her arms, but warm and real and he smelled like both himself and Arthur. 

Speaking of Arthur, he didn't seem to mind, as she glanced at him. There was a strange expression on his face, actually. Sorrowful and maybe a little... scared? She couldn't read it, but she didn't think it was for her, anyway, and whatever was still wrong between him and Eames, it was for them to work out. She was wildly curious, but it was none of her business.

"Don't feel guilty, Eames," she commanded, even though she knew it was useless, as she straightened and touched his hair lightly before returning to her seat. "I knew what I was getting into when I offered you sanctuary, and I regret nothing. I'm okay now, you're mostly okay, and it'll make me feel bad if I think you're blaming yourself. So stop blaming yourself and concentrate on healing, now that Tailor is dead."

Eames grimaced, but he seemed at least partially receptive to her words, a thoughtful expression on his face. Arthur gave her a small smile, weary, worn-down, but honest.

"We should get some sleep," she said, glancing at Peter, who was watching everything with bright, clear eyes. "How are...?" She didn't want to make any assumptions, but she was really hoping she wasn't going to have to go out and get a hotel room, or sleep on his couch....

"Arthur and Eames have claimed the guest room," Peter said smoothly, and she really needed some rest because his warm voice was doing strange things to her that Eames' similar dulcet tones had never done. "If you're not violently opposed to the idea, you can have my bed."

"And you will be?" Eames hopped in, arching a brow despite the fact that it _had_ to hurt, and obviously verging on severe disapproval. Ariadne supposed she ought to be offended and to feel that she could take care of herself, but she just found it to be unbearably chivalrous and adorable of him.

"I actually have to go in to work," Peter replied, his eyes twinkling at Eames even though his expression remained impassive and calm. "My boss will be all over what has happened to Tailor and I trust him implicitly, but I'll feel better if I'm on hand as well."

"We were careful not to leave any traces," Arthur put in.

Peter nodded. "As was I, aside from the tire tracks on the nearby side road. That doesn't mean that there might not be nasty surprises. I just want to be _sure_ everything is swept under the carpet. There's fresh linens on the bed," he added, this last spoken to Ariadne directly.

"Thank you," she smiled, feeling comfortable and taken care of. She'd be able to sleep somewhere safe, somewhere that she wasn't chained to the bed, with the assurance that Arthur and Eames were in the same house. It wasn't quite the same as being back in her own bed in Paris, but it was more than she'd had twenty-four hours ago.

"We all ought to retire," Arthur said, and he had that pinched look on his face again, his hands still clutching tightly at Eames'. Ariadne didn't think he'd feel better until he'd spent some time wrapped around the other man in the same bed, and maybe not even then. Well, she hoped so. And at least it looked as though Eames was amenable to this. Ariadne kind of figured that by this point Eames had forgiven Arthur for invading his sleep and forcing him into that awful dream all over again, and so she might as well do the same.

Sometimes it didn't hurt to be reminded of what was really important. And while Arthur had majorly fucked up, and while Tailor had been a really awful, horrible man, now that things were over with and all of them were all right, Ariadne felt as though they could all of them begin the healing process. Eames and Arthur more than herself, of course, but she wasn't exactly blase about having been kidnapped and held captive. She had a little recovering to do herself.

Beginning with getting some sleep. She was abruptly exhausted. Eames seemed on the verge of nodding off where he was sitting. And Arthur.... Well, he still looked wired, but Ariadne could tell that he was going to conk out the moment he allowed himself to relax. She just hoped that being together with Eames in the same bed was going to be relaxing enough for him.

"Off we go," Peter said, taking charge. It might have been simply because he was eager to get to his job -- whatever it might be, it sounded very important and probably government of some sort -- but Ariadne liked to think that he was as concerned about Eames and Arthur as she was. Or maybe just Eames. Either way, he was giving her a small smile that was just as reassuring as the one he'd given her in Tailor's manor, and she felt... well, she felt _safe_. 

This was probably the feeling Eames had been seeking when he'd shown up at her apartment, Ariadne thought as Peter showed her to his bedroom and turned down the bedcovers for her before gracefully excusing himself.

"Thank you," she said again as he left, and he tipped her a careless salute in return.

She beat Arthur and Eames into the bathroom, and she felt the better for it. Then she was in bed and she was falling asleep, and she intended to sleep long and hard.

She was going to sleep until she woke up, and not a moment less. And maybe after that she would sleep some more.

And she would deserve every moment of it.

***

Arthur had Eames wrapped up in his arms, pressed tightly against his chest, and yet it didn't seem like _enough_. Not after setting the room Eames was trapped in on fire. Not after seeing what Tailor had done to Eames' face. Not after Arthur had betrayed Eames, chased him off, put him in danger, and then not even really managed to rescue him.

No, it had been Eames who had rescued Arthur, against all the odds stacked against him. And while Arthur had no problem with this, though his manhood was in no way threatened, it still rankled that he had so utterly failed to get Eames out of the room where Tailor had trapped him, and had, in fact, made things worse.

What if Tailor hadn't dropped the knife? Eames might have burned to death or died of smoke inhalation, and Tailor would probably have shot Arthur. They'd both be dead, thanks to his careless use of a Molotov cocktail.

"Arthur," Eames rumbled against the skin of his neck, sounding tired and yet far too alert. "Stop it."

"Stop what?" he asked, realizing only as the words left his mouth that he was snapping. At Eames. And that was unacceptable.

"Stop feeling guilty," Eames instructed, as though he had known exactly what was going through Arthur's mind for the last several minutes.

"How did you...?"

Eames sighed, the heat and moisture of his breath gusting over Arthur's neck. It was sensual, but not sexual. Arthur was too exhausted and yet wired to feel aroused in the slightest. Now was not the time; not even for "oh, thank God we're still alive and in one piece" sex. Now was a time for holding Eames close and never, never letting go.

"Arthur, if you hadn't distracted Tailor with the fire he'd have taken my eyes, he wouldn't have dropped the knife, and we'd probably both be dead now," Eames said patiently. And Arthur couldn't really refute anything he had said, but....

"I handled the entire thing poorly," he growled, clutching at the man in his arms, sick with retroactive fear even if they were both safe now. Alive, though Eames was unfortunately beat up. 

"I was the one who let Tailor get the drop on him," Eames protested. "He had me in a locked room and tied to a chair before I could fight back."

"You shouldn't even have been there," Arthur said, and evidently he was so tired that he was throwing all caution to the wind. Yes, because pissing Eames off right now was the best way to handle his own feelings of guilt.

Eames snorted, but to his credit he answered fairly calmly. "You weren't going to deny me my revenge, were you?"

Arthur sighed, completely exhausted and yet unable to just let things go and sleep, no matter how much Eames clearly desired that he do so.

"I wasn't," he admitted, because that much was true. He was just lucky that Eames wasn't angry at him for killing the other three men involved. Though Tailor _had_ been the mastermind, and Arthur strongly suspected he'd been the one to wield the knife in the dream, as he had done in reality. "I just didn't want to put you in danger."

"It was my danger to pursue," Eames said, levering up and peering at Arthur through the darkness. Arthur could only see hints of his features, couldn't even make out the damage to his gorgeous face, but he knew that it was there nonetheless. "I was the one who put Ariadne in danger, and I was the one that Tailor tortured."

"Because he was looking for _me_ ," Arthur burst out. Because when it came down to it, _that_ was what had started it all, and _Arthur_ was the reason that Eames had been tortured and blinded in the dream, then nearly blinded in reality. And no matter what Eames said, that was just a plain, hard fact.

"So?" Eames asked, his voice growing hard. "Did you provoke him? Did you taunt Blaidd Drwg in any way that caused them to hire him? Was any of that actually your fault? Because I honestly doubt it. I know you like to be in control of things, Arthur, but there was nothing about this that was under your control.... Except for the fact that you saved me."

Arthur had to literally bite his tongue in order not to come back with, "After putting you in danger," because Eames had a very good point and he needed to take a moment to process that fact.

No, he had not done anything to provoke the Blaidd Drwg Corporation. He'd pulled off the job they'd asked, only he'd come up with a result they hadn't liked. It had been three men in the company -- all very highly placed -- that he'd left severely unhappy, but it wasn't as though he'd screwed them over or claimed his pay without having done the work.

He couldn't have anticipated that they would hire Tailor to find him, or that Tailor would have sussed out Eames as his greatest weakness, or that Tailor would have gotten his hands on Eames. 

It _had_ been his mistake that he'd traumatized Eames in his search for the truth and sent him running to Ariadne, but he'd only been indirectly responsible for the fact that she'd been kidnapped and held hostage.

If he looked at it honestly, down at the bare bones of the matter he wasn't really to blame....

So why did it feel as though everything was his fault?

He startled slightly when Eames' warm lips brushed against his in the darkness. As his eyes slid closed and he melted into the soft, sweet, lingering kiss, he felt most of the tension leaving his body, and he realized exactly how tightly he'd been holding himself. No wonder Eames had wanted him to relax; it must have been like trying to cuddle with a sack full of broomsticks.

"There," Eames breathed against his mouth as he finally eased back, though not too far. A fumbling but careful hand touched the side of his face, then cupped his jaw, as though he was something precious and delicate. "Arthur, _please_ ," Eames said softly. "We can talk about this all you like tomorrow, we can argue and scream and kiss and cry, but can't we sleep now? Both of us? Please?"

Arthur loosed a low noise that even he couldn't define, and lunged in to claim another kiss. Because if he didn't, he was either going to say something he'd regret or burst into tears. He really was too tired for further conversation, and Eames must be worse.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, and he pulled Eames closer even as he allowed himself to sink into the mattress. "Yes, you're right. Let's sleep now."

"Mm, I do love it when you admit that I'm right," Eames murmured, and Arthur could hear the smirk even before Eames pressed it into his lips. Then Eames snuggled into the spot under his chin again, one arm slung around Arthur's waist, the other hand resting over his heart. "Tomorrow, then?"

"Yeah," Arthur breathed, head heavy on the pillow, Eames warm and solid against him, sleep closing dark wings over his senses. He didn't plan to argue or scream or cry, but kissing.... If Eames was willing to kiss him again, then maybe things were going to work out between them after all.

If only Arthur could let go of his horrible burden of guilt. Over so many things.

***

Sometimes when Eames woke in the morning things seemed better than when he had gone to sleep the night before. Sometimes when he woke, things were actually a lot worse. Fortunately for him, this time when he roused it was more the former than the latter.

It was also early afternoon, rather than morning. He didn't regret sleeping in, though.

Especially not when he woke to find he and Arthur were still twined around one another under the bedcovers. He was a little disturbed to see that Arthur was awake and staring at him... or gazing soulfully might be a better way to put it. And that might actually be more accurate, if a bit overly romanticized.

"Hello," Arthur said softly, as soon as he saw that Eames was awake enough to process his words.

"Mm, 'morning," Eames replied fuzzily, and that was how he discovered it was actually afternoon. Also, he realized that he really needed to brush his teeth and eat something, in that order. And his face hurt like fuck, so a pain pill or two wouldn't be amiss.

He got all of this and more, Arthur by his side every step of the way as they ventured into the kitchen to find Peter and Ariadne drinking tea and discussing Frank Lloyd Wright with far more vigor than Eames was feeling. 

"There's food in the fridge and cupboards," Peter said, as Arthur fetched Eames a water and some pain killers, even though he shouldn't probably take them on an empty stomach. "Feel free to cook anything you feel like. I assume you'll clean up after yourselves."

"Where are you headed?" Eames asked, not raising his brows because his _face hurt_ , but trying to communicate his suspicion and potential disapproval with his eyes alone. Not that he had anything against the idea of Peter and Ariadne on a date... but it struck him as happening a little quickly. And maybe he didn't want to share her with someone who had once been his lover. That seemed strange and strangely... incestuous, in a manner of speaking. Completely illogical, of course, but since when where matters of the heart logical?

Ariadne was grinning. "Peter's taking me out for a late lunch," she announced cheerfully. "And to buy some clothing to tide me over until I can get home. At which point I'll pay him back."

"Really?" Eames sat down at the table and accepted the water and pills Arthur had gotten him. "And we aren't invited along why?"

"Have you looked in a mirror since you woke?" Peter asked dryly.

Ariadne punched him in the arm and spoke up before Arthur could go on the defensive for the sake of Eames' imaginary honour, even though Peter was completely correct.

"We are going out to eat," she said firmly, "In order to give you guys a chance to be alone together."

Eames frowned, because he couldn't imagine that Peter wanted him to have sex with Arthur in his guest room... could he?

"I think that there's a lot you two have to talk about and work out," Ariadne continued. And, okay, that made sense. Eames nodded, immediately regretted nodding, and slammed down his pills and half the glass of water to try and make the throbbing pain stop.

Arthur silently went to make them both some tea, and Peter tactfully left the room, as Ariadne continued. "But before I leave this house, I want to say one thing." She glanced at the back of Arthur's head, then captured and held Eames' eyes. Or, well, the one that wasn't swollen nearly shut. "Neither one of you is allowed to blame himself or the other for what happened to me," she said, very seriously and firmly. "Yes, Tailor kidnapped me because Eames was in my apartment, and because of what Arthur had done to the other guys who'd hurt Eames. But it was my choice to let Eames stay with me."

Eames had to admit she had a point, but before he could get any words out to say so, she was continuing. "Did I know how dangerous it would get? No. But neither did either of you, or Eames would never have come to my place. And if I'd known that it would get dangerous, would I still have let Eames stay? Yes, I would have. Of course, I'd have been a lot more careful about opening the door."

Eames grimaced. He _ought_ to have known and he really ought to have been more careful. But he couldn't argue, because what Ariadne was saying had real merit. He didn't think it was going to stop either himself or Arthur from feeling guilty, but the least he could do was to let Ariadne say her piece. Because she clearly wasn't done yet.

"When I found out how bad things had gotten with Mal in Cobb's subconscious, what did I do?" she asked, as Arthur brought two steaming cups to the table and sat down silently next to Eames. "Did I run away? Did I just let the team go in without a clue?" She waved a slender hand and frowned. "Okay, granted I probably should have told one of you instead of keeping Cobb's secret. But even though I didn't, I insisted on coming with you. None of us knew about the sedative -- well, other than Cobb and Yusuf -- but even if I'd known about the dangers of falling into limbo I like to think I'd have gone along anyway."

She leaned forward and fixed them both with a hard stare. "I'm not a baby and I'm not a delicate flower. Stop blaming yourselves, because it'll be all right. Yeah, I'm a little shaken up, but it'll pass. I knew the whole time that you would come for me and you did. We're all okay, as far as I'm concerned. Now I just want you two to be okay with each other."

"Were you up late thinking about all this?" Eames asked once it was clear that she was done speaking... for now.

Ariadne laughed lightly, not offended in the least. "That was a lot of words, wasn't it," she said ruefully. "No, I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. But I did a lot of thinking while I was chained to Tailor's bed, and then this morning, after I woke up but before you guys got up."

Eames nodded and sipped his tea, noting that it hurt a lot less to nod now. The pills must be kicking in. Thank God. Because he _was_ going to have to talk to Arthur, and he wanted to do so with an unclouded mind. Now he just had to hope that the pain killers didn't hit him too hard.

"Arthur?" she queried, looking at the other man and lifting her brows the way that Eames couldn't right now.

"You're not wrong," he said slowly. "About any of it."

"But?" she prompted, looking ready to scowl at him.

He shook his head, his hair a wild, untamed mess, his eyes sharp and focused. Just the way Eames loved seeing him, but he couldn't help feeling trepidatious about the coming conversation. 

"No... there's no _but_ ," Arthur replied. "I know that you're right, and I'll see what I can do about internalizing that knowledge."

Ariadne smiled and stood, leaning down to give Arthur a tight hug. "You do that. And while I'm gone, you take care of Eames. And let him take care of you, okay?"

"That's the plan," Eames spoke up before Arthur could. Then, before anyone else could say anything else, Peter popped back into the kitchen.

"Your chariot awaits, milady," he told Ariadne gallantly, and Eames thought that he really must like her, not just as a potential bedmate but as a friend, because Peter only teased those that he really cared about and was comfortable around. Otherwise he was deceptively quiet and reserved.

"There's a PASIV device in the sitting room," Peter went on, now speaking to both Arthur and Eames. "But I'd advise eating before you use it. Especially since you already took your pain killers."

Eames nodded, because Peter was right, and Arthur got up, already headed for the refrigerator. Ariadne made her way out of the room, giving them a quick wave.

"By the way," Peter added, before he followed her, "You can rest assured that there will be zero follow-up on the Tailor case. Since he was already officially dead, it was pretty easy to deal with the whole thing. The manor was completely destroyed, and my boss is making sure that no one becomes too curious about _how_ it was destroyed."

"Thank you," Arthur said simply, turning and fixing Peter with an intent look. "I owe you one."

Peter didn't argue, just bowed his head in acknowledgement, gave Eames a quick wink, and then vanished after Ariadne. Leaving Eames alone with Arthur.

Not that he was afraid. At least, he didn't think he was. He was a little worried that he wouldn't be able to convince Arthur that he'd forgiven him for the stunt with the PASIV device, back in his bolt hole, before he'd fled to Ariadne's. But the fact that Arthur was so determined about not letting Eames out of his sight for a moment, aside from using the toilet... that did bode well, did it not?

Eames had to think so, because whether he liked it or not, he and Arthur had a lot to hash through in the coming few hours.

But first things first. And the very first thing was a long overdue meal. It was too late for breakfast, so he guessed that lunch was going to have to do.

At least he could be sure of one thing; whatever Arthur cooked them, it was going to be delicious.

***

Arthur was determined that he was going to do the cooking, because he still didn't like the idea of Eames knowing where everything was in Peter's kitchen. Well, that, and the fact that Eames had taken most of the damage during their confrontation with Tailor.

Eames could protest that he was feeling fine, and had done so, but the purple bruises mottling one side of his face and the sliver of dark crimson marring the opposite cheekbone said otherwise. Arthur knew the man well enough to know that he had woken with a headache, though the pain medication seemed to be doing its job well enough now.

Added to that was the fact that Eames needed some fattening up. He'd lost far too much weight during his recent travails, and Arthur intended to see that this was reversed. He had nothing against a slimmed down Eames; in fact, he thought he kind of liked it, the way Eames fit better into his arms now. But Eames hadn't been taking care of himself, and it showed.

"How do you feel about eggs?" he asked, already pulled them out of the fridge. Peter had everything neatly packaged and organized, so it shouldn't be too difficult to find what he needed. He was also well stocked for a man who lived alone.

"Largely ambivalent," Eames answered with what could only be complete honesty. "But I'll eat anything you put before me."

"Would you prefer pancakes?" Arthur wondered, pausing to stare at Eames intently. The last thing he wanted to do now, after all, was force his own desires onto Eames. "Or maybe a sandwich, since it's lunch time?"

Eames shook his head, smiling softly. Arthur liked to imagine that he looked fond, but that could have been wishful thinking on his part. "An omelet with cheese sounds delightful," he said. "It's only that pain pills don't agree with me. Pretty much anything would be hard to choke down now, no matter how temptingly prepared."

Arthur nodded, feeling some of his nerves fade. Though not all, by a long stretch.

It was strange, feeling anxious around Eames, about the thing between the two of them. It had always been so easy before. Arthur wanted something, he made the effort to take it, and Eames either allowed it or he didn't. Now....

Now Arthur wanted things like "forever". He wanted to take care of Eames and keep him safe. And he didn't know whether or not he still had the right to claim these as his own. He kind of thought that he'd forfeited those rights, what with all the mistakes he had made in the past few weeks.... But Eames didn't seem to feel the same, which was confusing but strangely comforting. In a way.

"Arthur." Somehow, without his realizing it, Eames had come up behind him and wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist, warm and breathing and _here_. Arthur was too tense to melt back into the embrace, but he did turn his head as Eames nuzzled at his cheek, planting a soft, sweet kiss there.

"It's all right," Eames breathed, tugging Arthur in close, but not holding him so tightly that he couldn't get away if he wished. "We'll talk things through and work things out. I might be being presumptuous, but I feel as though we both want the same thing, and all we need to do is hash out the details getting in our way."

Arthur let out a small sound that wasn't a sob but wasn't far from it, turning within the circle of Eames' arms. 

"It's not presumptuous," he said, slinging his own arms around Eames in return and running his eyes over the familiar but precious lines of Eames' face, forcing himself to look past the surface damage, meeting and matching the intensity in those clear grey eyes. "But I'm worried that once you know the whole truth, you're going to want the opposite of what I want."

Eames frowned, then leaned in to kiss him firmly. "Why don't you give me a little more credit than that," he murmured against the curves of Arthur's lips, all hot breath and husky voice. "Don't write this thing off until you've got reason to. All right?"

"You don't know--" Arthur began miserably, only to be cut off by Eames' lips, plastered to his again.

"Whatever it is, it can wait until after we've eaten," Eames informed him sternly. And, well, it wasn't as though he was wrong.

"A cheese omelet, you said?" Arthur asked weakly. He was reluctant to leave the safe circle of Eames' arms, but his stomach was letting him know on no uncertain terms that it was empty, and Eames must be feeling the same, no matter how the pills were messing with him.

"If you please," Eames grinned.

"I do please," Arthur replied, trying to smile back. But he was going to have to confess to everything, and despite Eames' reassurances, he thought this might drive a wedge between them that would destroy whatever tentative romance they might be developing....

But first, a belated breakfast. He wanted to take care of Eames, and that meant getting him fed. The rest of it could wait until after he'd accomplished that.


	10. Chapter 10

Eames could tell that Arthur was on edge, and he was sympathetic, he truly was. But he was also ravenously hungry, and didn't want to do any soul searching or speak about anything vital to their burgeoning relationship until he was properly fortified.

Besides which, the pain killers were making him a tad woozy, which he needed to offset as quickly as possible. 

And he couldn't imagine that Arthur wasn't hungry as well. He hadn't shed as much weight as Eames had, but the past week or so clearly hadn't been kind to him, and Eames hated to see that the man he loved hadn't been taking care of himself.

He froze, rim of his tea cup pressed to his bottom lip, eyes going round as he poked at this thought that had just crossed his mind.

It wasn't so much a _new_ thought. He must have known on some level when he had endured physical torture that he couldn't be sure wasn't real in order to keep Arthur safe.... And yet he'd never really put it into words before, not even in the privacy of his own mind.

"Eames?" Arthur asked, peering at him anxiously as he set a plate of steaming food on the table before him. "Are you all right?"

He looked so concerned, so fearful, so ready to leap to Eames' defense, whatever this defense might entail, that Eames had to wonder if... wonder if perhaps Arthur loved him in return...?

Well, Eames supposed that would be one of the things they would be discussing, now, wouldn't it. But after he had eaten. The omelette smelled incredibly delicious, enough to overcome the queasiness of taking strong medication on an empty stomach, and, besides, Eames didn't want to make Arthur worry past whatever was so obviously gnawing away at him already.

"I'm fine, darling," he drawled, setting down his cup and closing his hand around one of Arthur's wrists. He could feel delicate bones and corded muscle, he could feel the perfection of flesh and the strength that Arthur could wield, and he almost wanted to forego eating and talking and just go have sex.

But his stomach was not in on this half-baked plan, and he knew that there was a conversation coming up that he could not and should not avoid.

Eames had already forgiven Arthur for violating his dream and making him relive Tailor's tortures, and he figured that the events of their assault on Tailor's manor had proven that he _did_ still trust him, so he wasn't sure what there was left to talk about.... But he could instinctively tell that there _was_ something else, something that was preying on Arthur's mind, something that was putting a dark, somber, and _fearful_ shadow in those beautiful brown eyes. And that could not be allowed to stand.

Eames would listen to whatever Arthur had to say, he would respond, and then they could move on. Hopefully moving onward in a quest to defile Peter's guest room bed.

"I'm fine," he repeated, far more convincingly this time, tugging lightly on Arthur's wrist until he bent and granted Eames a quick but sweet kiss. "I'll be even better once I've eaten."

Arthur looked at him for a long moment, his features soft, then his mouth firmed and he gave a quick nod. 

"Yeah, me too," he said, sounding less convincing than Eames had done. He tugged his wrist free then brought his own plate to the table, and they ate in comfortable silence. At least, it was comfortable for Eames. He was a little concerned about the quick glances Arthur kept shooting him when he didn't think Eames was paying attention, but....

Well, but they would deal with whatever was bothering Arthur after they were finished eating and had cleaned up after themselves.

They were still guests in Peter's house; personal distress and potential heartbreak were never reasons for poor manners. If Eames had learned one thing from his mother, it had been that.

He had also learned it wasn't always wise to follow one's heart. But he felt that in the case of Arthur, that was exactly what he was going to have to do. 

Scratch that; it was what he _wanted_ to do.

***

The PASIV device was exactly where Peter had said it would be, set up on his desk and ready for use. Once Arthur and Eames had finished washing the breakfast dishes together, they made their way into the room by unspoken consensus. 

"What do you think?" Eames asked, trailing a fingertip along the edge of the case and obviously trying for a light tone. "Any bets on whether or not I'll still be blind in the dream-share?"

Arthur grimaced. "No bets. But are... are you going to let me go under with you?"

Eames shot him a surprised look. "I thought that was a given," he said mildly.

Arthur blinked, then smiled, a small but sincere curve of his lips. "Good," he replied, feeling a warm swell in his heart, even though he was still on edge. It continued to take him by surprise, every time Eames showed any trust in him, and it gave him hope for the future. It let him hope that they might _have_ a future together. 

Even though he knew, in his heart, that he didn't _deserve_ Eames' trust. But the thought of a future without Eames in it... left him cold. Literally. It chilled him right through.

"All right?" 

Eames had paused, fresh cannula pinched between a nimble finger and thumb, his brow furrowed in a concerned expression as he stared at Arthur intently.

Arthur shook off his moment of introspection, trying to focus more on the good than the bad. "I should be asking you that," he mumbled, not incredibly tactfully but achingly honestly, then fumbled for his own tube. Peter had some comfortable looking chaise lounge seats already set up, and while Arthur didn't like being so far away from Eames, they each took one. They'd be going under together, so there was that. Arthur might not be able to protect Eames from Arthur himself, but he could damned well try to keep him safe from everything else.

"I'm setting it for five minutes," Eames said, frowning down at the machine as he punched in the numbers, though he probably wasn't aware of that expression. "More time than I'll need, of course, but it feels cowardly to go with less."

Arthur didn't really agree with that, but he was perfectly willing to humor Eames. This was all about Eames; discovering whether the blindness inflicted on him _because of Arthur_ was still in effect. And he certainly wasn't going to protest spending more time with Eames, in the dream-share or out.

He wanted to kiss Eames one more time before they went under, but then Eames was pressing the button and they both had to settle back into their seats before the Somnacin took their senses in that familiar downward spiral.

They'd be back in five minutes, one way or another. But those five minutes were going to prove to be of essential importance to Eames.

And as such, they were of essential importance to Arthur as well.

***

Eames hadn't been sure what to expect. He had to admit that he'd _hoped_.... He'd hoped that enough time had passed, he'd hoped that with Tailor faced up to, vanquished, and dead, that his subconscious would have had time to come to grips with the fact that _he was not actually blind_....

And yet it was still something of a shock -- a completely pleasant surprise, of course -- when he entered this fresh, new dream to find that he was whole of body and in complete control of all five senses.

"Eames?" 

Arthur sounded so tentative next to him, but Eames was momentarily distracted, scanning the view before him. They were on a cafe balcony overlooking the Seine, and it was the moment in late afternoon on a warm summer day where the sunlight was turning everything warm and golden, with the promise of coolness in the growing shadows. It was beautiful, and Eames wasn't sure if this was because it was a dream or of it was because he could _see_ it.

Then he realized that there was something far more beautiful he could and should be looking at.

"All clear, love," he murmured, turning his gaze on Arthur and internally wincing the moment the endearment passed his lips. Arthur might let him get away with the occasional "darling", even though he'd told Eames it made him sound like a grandmother or an elderly flaming homosexual, but he surely would bristle at something so overblown and overly familiar. Even if Eames _did_ mean it.

Arthur either didn't notice or he didn't mind. He was smiling at Eames, dimples on full display, his own eyes alight and crinkled at the corners. Whatever worry or guilt had been darkening them before, it was banished for the moment, lost in the flood of overwhelming joy and relief that was clear to read on every line of his face.

"Thank God," he breathed, quietly but sincerely, one hand closing tightly on Eames' shoulder, as though this was the only contact he was going to allow himself. Well, to hell with that, Eames thought fervently. He needed a hug and he felt as though Arthur needed one as well.

Without giving it any deeper consideration, Eames reached for Arthur, and after only a moment's hesitation, Arthur was reaching for him in return, and they embraced warmly on this dream balcony overlooking the dream river, holding one another tightly.

It almost felt like coming home, inasmuch as Eames understood what that meant... but there was still something between them, some sort of barrier. Eames was pretty sure he hadn't had anything to do with it, which meant it was all Arthur. He couldn't figure out why it existed, and he wanted it gone. Which meant that they ought to use the hour that they had remaining in this dream to talk to one another.

Eames might not be ready for this... but he couldn't bear for things to go on much further as they had been. He just wanted to _know_. What it was that Arthur was hiding from him, and why Arthur continued to feel so guilty, even when Eames had already absolved him of all guilt.

Maybe he just needed to do so a little more implicitly. He'd thought he'd made his point already, but had he actually done so? Now he wasn't sure.

A crisply dressed server cleared his throat discretely behind them, and they separated, sitting at a table and ordering tea as though that was something they'd come down here specifically to do. Eames could see that the relief and happiness remained on Arthur's features, but he could see some negativity beginning to filter in around the edges. He really needed to figure this out.

He wasn't going to be completely happy until Arthur was completely happy. Unconditionally.

"What is it, Arthur?" he asked gently, as they sat sipping their tea and evening drew its dark curtains about them. It might be early afternoon topside, in the real London, but here in the dream Paris night was rapidly falling. Eames had long ago gotten used to such disparity in the two worlds he lived in and it had ceased to bother him.

"What is what?" Arthur asked, eyes wide, staring at him almost blankly, and Eames honestly couldn't tell whether he was prevaricating or actually confused.

He sighed, not so much put upon as profoundly weary. He just wanted everything to be all right again. Tailor was dead, Eames was no longer blind in the dream-share, Ariadne was safe, they were all safe.... So why was Arthur still so obviously on edge?

"When we talked, back in Ariadne's flat," he said, as patiently as he could, because they had time, and neither of them was going anywhere until the PASIV device ran through the five minutes he'd set it to, "I forgave you for invading my dream and making me relive Tailor's torture."

Arthur visibly winced, but Eames ignored it and continued. 

"That hasn't changed. You didn't know how bad it would be. You should have spoken to me first, yes, but it's not as though I've never made any mistakes in my life."

Arthur snorted a little, even though he still looked drawn and guilt-ridden. Eames allowed himself to grin crookedly, self-deprecatingly. 

"You apologized and I accepted that apology, right?" he pressed. "We're okay on that part of it, aren't we, Arthur?"

He was aware that he sounded a little plaintive, but he couldn't help it. He really wanted Arthur to believe and accept that he had forgiven him for what had happened. In the whole scheme of things, it hadn't been a betrayal; just a moment of poor judgment and a single mistake.

"I still feel bad about it," Arthur said slowly, his eyes gleaming in the lamps that the servers were lighting on the balcony. "But if you say it's forgiven, I can't insist that you stay mad at me. That would... that would kind of negate my apology, wouldn't it? If I asked you to forgive me, then refused your forgiveness?"

Eames chuckled, even though Arthur hadn't been joking. "Exactly." He nodded, and the movement was free of pain or discomfort, down here in the dream-share. If he concentrated, he could still feel a shadow of pain and pressure on the side of his face, but there was really no reason to focus on it. Not while he was dreaming.

"So that part is settled," he said, sipping his tea, which was still steaming hot because, well, _dream_. "As it should be. But then there's the matter of trust."

Arthur flinched even more violently this time, and Eames knew that he was finally striking at the heart of the matter. Which was good, because he wanted to get this _fixed_. Even if he didn't like making Arthur feel bad for any reason. He needed to figure out the reason, though, so that they could get through this and put it behind them.

"Arthur, I trust you," he said, deciding that nothing would be solved by beating around the proverbial bush. "It's true that I thought for a brief period that I couldn't; especially before I understood your motivation in taking me back into Tailor's dream. But after all that has happened, after everything we went through... can you honestly say that you can't see that _I trust you_?"

Instead of looking reassured, Arthur looked even more agonized than he had when Eames had begun speaking, and Eames just couldn't understand that.

"I--" Arthur started, but he didn't follow this up with anything, his lips remaining parted. And now was not the time for Eames' libido to kick in, but it had really been a long time since he and Arthur had done anything other than awkwardly share a bed and exchange a few kisses....

But Arthur was still troubled by something, and until Eames found out what it was and they got it dealt with, lustful thoughts were going to have to wait. Not that Eames was going to be thinking too many sexy thoughts when Arthur was so clearly distressed.

"What is it?" he asked again, trying to prod Arthur as gently as he could.

Arthur looked completely miserable, which confused Eames, because he'd thought that they'd gotten through the worst of everything already. Unless....

"Is there some horrible secret that you're keeping from me?" he asked lightly, and he'd only been kidding, but Arthur groaned and sank his face in his hands.

Eames' brows shot up toward his hairline. "Arthur?" he queried, equal parts concerned and intrigued. After all that they had been through, he wouldn't have thought that there could still be anything that could come between them, but evidently Arthur felt differently.

Before he could pursue the subject with any more questions -- though what more could he ask when he had no idea what was going on in Arthur's head? -- their server wheeled up the dessert cart.

Eames was about to dismiss it when he realized that instead of delicate pastries, it held just one item; a gleaming silver PASIV device.

"What?" he blinked, but Arthur had raised his head and was looking at Eames with newfound resolve as the server faded discretely away, leaving behind the cart and its unexpected consignment. 

"I want you to go under with me, into my subconscious," Arthur said, his voice as firm as Eames had heard it since they'd been in Tailor's manor. "Considering that I invaded yours."

Eames frowned. "I already said that was all right," he protested.

"I know, but...." Arthur chewed on his lower lip, his eyes wide and entreating, and how could Eames deny that face anything? Still....

"You don't need to--" Eames began, but Arthur was already shaking his head and Eames allowed him to interrupt.

"I want you to. I know it's not the same, but it's the best I have to offer. Please."

It was the "please" that did it, Eames thought. He still felt that this entire thing was faintly ridiculous, but if Arthur wanted it badly enough to ask... to very nearly beg... then who was Eames to say no?

Instead of replying, he went to work, getting himself hooked up as Arthur did the same. They should be safe enough. They were only down here for five minutes topside, which would be about an hour on this first level. Neither of them was really changing anything, aside from Arthur dreaming up this second PASIV device, so nobody's projections should go on alert. And what was the worst that might happen? If any projections did kill them while they were under they'd just wake up that much earlier, safely in Peter's den.

Eames had already proven to himself that he could see in the dream-share. That was why they had come under initially. Now it seemed as though Arthur had something to prove as well. 

Eames just needed to figure out what the hell that something was. And it appeared to be that the only way to do that was to go under a second time.

And so he would go under, into Arthur's subconscious as Arthur desired. It was the least Eames could do for the man he... well, _loved_.

***

Arthur blinked awake, taking a moment to place the stippled white surface he was staring at as being the ceiling of Peter's back room.

Once he'd reached awareness enough to recognize that, he sat up straight, coming out of the lounge chair with a jolt, his gaze already seeking out Eames, where he was also regaining consciousness in the other chair.

When they had gone down into the second level, in their shared dream, Arthur hadn't seen any sign of Eames. And since he had wanted to share his _subconscious_ with Eames, he'd found himself a quiet place to sit and wait out the timer instead of seeking the other man out. Now he wanted, he _needed_ to know what it was his subconscious had shared with Eames.

Blinking, Eames sat up and gave Arthur a somewhat odd look as he carefully freed himself from the PASIV device.

"How... how did it go?" Arthur asked breathlessly when the silence between them began to weigh too heavily on him for his aching heart and his tattered nerves to bear.

"Well." Eames licked his lips. His good eye was bright and clear as he fixed his gaze on Arthur's face, seeming to be looking for something. Or maybe just carefully monitoring his reactions. "Evidently your guilty conscience manifests itself in the form of Cobb and his dearly departed wife, Professor Miles, and a lovely older couple that I can only assume to be your parents, given the familial similarities."

Arthur grimaced faintly. He'd been expecting something like that... had almost been hoping for it, in fact. But it still made his pulse leap with fear to hear it. "Did they.... Did they tell you...?"

He couldn't ask the question, couldn't put it into words, which had been pretty much the whole reason he'd had Eames go under a second time, more deeply into his dreaming mind. He'd been hoping that his subconscious might communicate what he could not. Now he just needed to know whether it had done so.

Eames smiled slightly, though the rest of his expression was serious. "They threw themselves at me," he replied, "Almost fighting over who was going to tell me first."

Arthur winced, even though that had been what he had kind of wanted. At least Eames didn't seem to be horribly distraught or furious with him....

"It's all right, you know, Arthur," Eames said, his voice soft and gentle in a way that actually made Arthur feel _worse_. 

He dropped his eyes, unable or maybe unwilling to meet Eames' gaze any longer. "I didn't trust you," he forced out through a tight throat. It was easier to speak the words now that he knew Eames already knew, but that didn't mean it wasn't still difficult. "You remained silent under torture, didn't give my location away to save yourself, and the first thing I thought when Blaidd Drwg Corporation found me anyway was that you had--"

He choked, unable to continue, but it didn't really matter because Eames already knew how badly Arthur had misjudged him, had underestimated him.

Instead of replying right away, Eames scooted forward, reaching out and grasping Arthur's hands in his own, holding them tightly enough that Arthur wouldn't be able to pull away without a fuss. Not that he had it in him to try.

"Arthur, you ridiculous man," Eames murmured, and he sounded so calm and reasonable that it made Arthur want to die a little. "I'd been telling you all along not to trust me. I can hardly fault you for having listened to me."

That might be true but it wasn't the _point_. Still, the gentle understanding in Eames' tone brought Arthur's head up, his gaze caught and held. He opened his mouth, sure that he had a quick rejoinder to that, only to find that he was completely without words.

"I'm not hurt," Eames told him earnestly, raising one of Arthur's hands briefly and brushing the knuckles against the soft swell of his lower lip. Arthur's pulse fluttered, picked up a little, but he couldn't give in to his physical reaction. They still needed to discuss the breach that he had created between them. Eames didn't seem to feel it was a big deal, but it really was. It made Arthur feel sick to think of how badly he had misjudged the other man.

"You trusted me," Arthur said huskily. "Even when I betrayed that trust, snuck into your home, and took you under without your knowledge or permission. And from the very beginning...."

"From the very beginning," Eames said, firmly but still quietly, "I _told_ you not to trust me. It was only prudent. Hell, it wasn't until I was in the thick of Tailor's dream tortures that I discovered that I wouldn't betray you. If even _I_ didn't know, how could you have been expected to realize?"

This all sounded right. But Arthur couldn't let go his feelings of guilt that easily. It couldn't _be_ that easy. What he had done, what he had thought... had been too unforgivable. Eames couldn't just sit there and absolve him of all this guilt. As nice as that would be, Arthur's own conscience wouldn't allow him to accept this easy an out.

He shook his head stubbornly, and Eames sighed. Arthur realized with more than a little bit of fear that Eames looked just as stubborn as he himself was feeling.

"Look, it's okay that you thought I betrayed you," Eames told him, unwavering and certain. "I don't hold that against you; not even the slightest bit. So can we let that go already?" He tilted his head. "You made your mother cry, you know, when she told me in the second level of the dream."

Arthur winced again, but Eames ignored it and pressed onward.

"You have to know by now that I trust you. And you can be sure that you can trust me. Can't we just call it even? I'd really like to get past this and let go of guilt and get on with our lives."

And what, really, could Arthur say to that? Rejecting Eames' forgiveness and his proffered trust would only break Arthur's own heart and insult Eames. Neither of those were things Arthur wanted to do.

"I know that you trust me now," Eames pressed, when Arthur didn't reply immediately. "When I told you to get down, just before I shot Tailor, you didn't hesitate."

"That was just common sense," Arthur couldn't help arguing. "Battlefield tactics."

Eames didn't roll his eyes at this, but Arthur was willing to bet that it was a near miss. "Are you going to say that you don't trust me now?"

"No!" Arthur blurted, squeezing Eames' hands painfully tight. "I trust you, Eames!"

"Then there's no problem," Eames said breezily, as though he could make it so simply by saying so. "You didn't trust me before, but you do now. Sometimes trust has to be earned rather than given. I'd say we've both earned one another's trust... wouldn't you agree?"

Arthur couldn't disagree, but he didn't know if he had it in him to agree.

"The hard part isn't so much accepting your forgiveness," he said slowly, working it out even as he spoke the words. "The hard part will be forgiving myself."

Eames bit his lower lip and gave Arthur a mournful look. "I don't know how I can help you with that," he said, emotional strain evident in his voice. "But I _want_ to. It's okay. I'm okay. I wish I could make it okay for you."

Arthur nodded. "How about this," he offered, wanting to give Eames as much as Eames was giving him, his brain still churning away and figuring things out as he said them. "I'll focus on you, on _us_. And maybe my subconscious will eventually let go of my feelings of guilt. It's... I'm sorry, Eames, but that's the best I have to offer right now."

Eames' brow was creased in a frown, and he looked suddenly uncertain. "You said 'us'..." he murmured, licking his lips nervously, his good eye heavy lidded. "And you told Peter we were together."

Arthur didn't really remember doing so, but he was sure Eames wouldn't make something like that up, so he must have done so at some point. The last forty-eight hours were something of a blur, after all. What confused him was the fact that Eames seemed so confused over his having said so.

"I didn't... I didn't know that we were," Eames continued, his hands squeezing and then going loose around Arthur's. Arthur held on tight, though, because he wasn't about to let Eames go. Not now and not ever.

Every time their relationship advanced, it had been due to Arthur pushing and Eames giving in. Eames hadn't given in every time Arthur had pushed, of course, but it had always been Arthur impelling them forward. He wasn't insulted by this. He knew that it wasn't because Eames didn't want him; but, rather, it was because Eames was hesitant to reach out and try to take anything for himself. Arthur understood that, and he didn't mind. It was how Eames was, and if Arthur hadn't been willing to work with that then Eames wouldn't have been the man that Arthur wanted.

But Arthur did want. And Eames seemed to be willing to be the one to put things on the line now. At probably the most inconvenient time possible, but if he was speaking the truth it was Arthur who had started it all.

Well, he wasn't going to deny it or leave Eames hanging. Not after everything they had been through, after all he had done to Eames and for Eames. By this point Arthur didn't feel they needed words to understand one another, but it wouldn't cost him anything to say the words. 

Well, it could cost him _everything_ if Eames ran. But somehow Arthur didn't think that this was what would happen.

"We are," he verified, as firmly as he was able. "We were. We have been. Eames, I _want_ us to be together. I'm... I mean, I know that I annoy you sometimes, and I won't lie and say that sometimes you don't annoy me, but--"

"When Tailor tortured me," Eames interrupted, causing Arthur to flinch at the reminder, the memory of what he had seen in the dream-share bursting into his mind's eye in vibrant color, "All I could think of was your smile. And how if I gave your position away, I'd never get to see that smile again. And then he took my eyes and I wasn't sure whether I was awake or dreaming, but even if I was awake and really blind, it would be okay, because even if I never _saw_ your smile again I could at least live with knowing that you were still alive and safe and able to smile."

Arthur's heart physically ached as he listened, the words washing over him like both icy cold and soothing warmth at once. He'd never known he could feel so horrified and so cherished at the same time.

Eames was staring at him now, and Arthur couldn't bring himself to smile, but he met and held Eames' gaze. He couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted, and he didn't want to. It was comforting to remind himself that Eames hadn't be blinded in reality, that he was safe now, and that Tailor would never be able to touch either of them again.

Even more important, though, Eames was exposing his heart to Arthur now, letting Arthur see more of him than he ever had before. Even when they'd been having sex, before, Eames had hidden behind masks. Maybe he hadn't known he had been doing it... but he had. And now that they were stripped away, Arthur could see the difference.

It was regrettable that it had taken something like what Tailor had done to them -- to all of them, but especially to Eames -- for Arthur and Eames to reach this point... but right now the important thing was that they were here. And Arthur could feel the guilt that was still gnawing away at him beginning to fade as he focused instead on what Eames had just offered him.

"I just wanted to let you know...." Eames' forehead furrowed and he suddenly lowered his eyes, his long lashes shuttering his intense gaze. "You know--"

"I want forever," Arthur blurted out, wanting to get it out there, not willing to wait for Eames to find the words. He didn't know whether that was where Eames had been headed, but he was suddenly afraid that if he didn't say it, Eames wouldn't know that it was what he wanted. He needed to make sure Eames knew.

Eames looked up, and he actually seemed surprised. Arthur wasn't sure whether he ought to be offended or sad over this fact. It was true, that he had never put it into words before.... Well, and it wasn't until recently that he had even _realized_ what he wanted. So he supposed he shouldn't be so surprised that Eames hadn't realized. In fact, he might have been more concerned than otherwise if Eames had figured it out before him.

"As long as... as long as that's okay with you," Arthur added, as the silence between them spun out from awkward to worrisome. He bit his lip, blinking rapidly as his eyes stung. He wasn't going to cry, but he was filled with an overflow of emotions. Conflicting and conflicted. He wasn't sure whether or not....

"Yes," Eames said, and it sounded as though he had forced the word out through a lump in his throat, but he had said it and that was what mattered. "Yes, forever, Arthur. That's-- I mean, that's what I want too. Forever."

Arthur felt a knot in his chest release, tension he had barely realized he'd wound tightly around his heart. 

"As long as that's what we both want," he said, clutching Eames' hands more tightly, "Then we can work through everything else. Right?"

"That's my _point_ ," Eames said forcefully, nodding his head, his lips curling upward and parting in a brilliant grin. Arthur couldn't bring himself to smile back, not when he felt as though he'd been kicked in the chest. But there was hope and rousing joy filling him and he couldn't stop himself surging forward and kissing that beautiful smile off of Eames' mouth.

Not that Eames seemed to mind in the least. Arthur wasn't sure they'd quite gotten everything sorted out, but he'd dealt with his festering feeling of guilt over having believed that Eames had betrayed him, easing it even if it wasn't gone, and they'd mutually declared their feelings and intentions, so the rest of it would work itself out, right? 

Well, if not, he could at least be sure they were on the same page now. Not to mention, if they were done talking there was definitely something better they could be doing with their mouths.

It seemed as though it had been forever since he had taken Eames to bed. And this would be the first time since they had declared their feelings for one another.

The first of many times, if Arthur had his way. Forever was a very long time, after all.

***

"Bed," Arthur mumbled against Eames' lips, and Eames wasn't about to argue or demand he be more elegant or articulate.

That wasn't what he needed, at any rate. What he needed was, well, _bed_ , as Arthur had said. His mother's training had never reached as far as fucking in someone's guest room, but he didn't suppose that Peter was expecting anything else from himself and Arthur once they were done talking. Besides, bedcovers could be laundered. 

The chaise lounge beneath Arthur gave a rather ominous squeal as they leaned toward one another at a couple of very awkward angles, and Eames agreed, "Bed," as he reluctantly pulled back and away from Arthur's delicious mouth.

Technically speaking, it hadn't been that long since they had had sex. Less than a month. But with everything that had happened between now and then -- kidnapping, torture, imagined betrayal, dream blindness, violation of home and mind, running and hiding, assassinations, more kidnapping, rescue attempts, explosions, vengeance gained, and the unexpected declaration of mutual intentions and emotions -- it seemed as though it had been ages.

"I want to take you home," Arthur said, as they stumbled to their feet and down the hall to the guest room. "Get you fed and rested, keep you safe until you've recovered."

"I'm fine, Arthur." Eames couldn't help feeling a little exasperated. "I can see in the dream-share again, and--"

"It's not that," Arthur interrupted, speaking too urgently to come off as rude, to come off as anything other than urgent and sincere. "You haven't been taking care of yourself, Eames. You obviously haven't been eating, you probably haven't been sleeping. I know that you were doing better while you were staying with Ariadne, but that's only been a short period compared to the rest of it."

"You haven't exactly been good to yourself lately either," Eames came back with. Not in a snide or defensive way. He could see the deep shadows etched under the Arthur's eyes, the tension in his jaw, and he knew that it couldn't have been easy to hunt down and execute the men who had tortured Eames. Arthur was ruthless and he was a professional, but he was also human, and killing should never be easy. Even when it was in pursuit of righteous vengeance, it must weight on Arthur at least a little, because Eames damned well knew that Arthur wasn't heartless or conscienceless.

"That just proves my point, then," Arthur said, thankfully not taking offense when they were moments away from sex. "We both need the break, and I want to take it together."

Eames nodded. He wasn't going to continue to argue when it looked as though he would get his way. "As long as you let me take care of you, the same way you want to coddle me," he specified.

Arthur chuckled. "I wasn't planning on coddling, so much as cooking for you and fucking you into the mattress to be sure you sleep soundly," he murmured, pushing open the guest room door and ushering Eames inside with a large, warm, promising hand at the small of his back.

"Mm." Eames couldn't help the way his mouth curled up at the corners as he began unbuttoning his shirt and Arthur locked the door behind them. "That's what _I_ would call coddling."

Arthur quirked a brow and then grinned back at Eames, his dimples flashing. Eames reveled in the sight. He wanted to grab Arthur and kiss him cross-eyed, but if he did then he wouldn't be able to see those dimples, and not to mention that would cut into the time they could spend getting naked.

"Then I guess we can coddle one another," Arthur said, stripping off his own shirt with an ease and grace that Eames had never been able manage himself, at least in the waking world. "As long as we agree that it goes both ways."

"That's the way I like it best, as you well know," Eames smirked, carelessly shucking his trousers and boxers. Which were actually Arthur's trou and pants, borrowed, which went a long way toward proving Arthur's point, Eames supposed.

Arthur's smile widened, and Eames stared, enthralled, as he stepped out of his puddled trousers. How he had missed that lovely sight. And every word he had spoken in his roundabout declaration of love was the truth. If he'd lost his eyesight in the waking world, it would still have been worth it as long as Arthur was still alive and safe and smiling somewhere in the world.

Of course, it was a hundred times better when Eames still had his vision and could _see_ Arthur smiling at him. It made every moment of pain he had gone through worth it. Completely worth it.

"I love you," he said before he could stop himself, the words popping out of him without conscious thought. 

Arthur's eyes widened. "You do?" he asked, startled, in an equally unguarded response.

Instead of panicking or trying to take it back, Eames felt a strange sort of calm settle over him. He'd said it and the world hadn't ended. They'd both known what "forever" meant, of course, but there was something liberating about having said the actual words. Eames had always thought that they would feel like a trap closing around him, but instead it had been remarkably freeing. 

"Do you really think I'd stay silent under torture I couldn't be sure wasn't real for someone I didn't love?" he asked hoarsely, not upset, just stating the obvious.

Arthur was downright beaming now, and even though he was still wearing his own trousers, he advanced on Eames and locked him in a tight embrace, claiming and ravaging his lips before he could say anything further. Not that Eames had much else to say. He'd already verbalized the most important thing remaining between them.

Arthur licked his way into Eames' mouth, their tongues twining, and then pulled away despite the low whine of discontent that Eames loosed, his tongue running along the inner line of Eames' lower lip on its way out.

"I love you too," Arthur breathed against Eames' tingling lips, the words almost redundant, and yet the greatest gift that he could give Eames. "It just took me a while to figure that out."

"It took me losing my eyes to figure it out," Eames rejoined. "And even then I wasn't sure until I'd had some time to think about it after the fact."

Arthur shook his head slightly, but instead of responding he kissed Eames again, less deeply this time, and then gave him a small shove.

"Get on the bed," he instructed, reaching down to unfasten his slacks. The zip buzzed loudly in Peter's small guest room, and Eames hastened to turn down the bedcovers and clamber onto the mattress. It was a little more personal than their trysts on random hotel beds had been, but it was still in someone else's house. Eames was really looking forward to seeing Arthur's home, to sharing Arthur's actual bed, to being in Arthur's personal space _because Arthur wanted him there_.

"I'll book us airplane tickets as soon as we're done here," Arthur said, as though he had read Eames' mind. Well, when they weren't at odds, their thought processes ran along remarkable similar lines. And never more so than when sex was involved. Although, Eames had to admit in the privacy of his own mind, this was about so much more than sex.

Instead of replying, because he didn't really have anything to say to that, Eames watched as Arthur finished undressing and went to his luggage, fetching lube and condoms.

"I'm clean," Eames spoke up then, taking a chance on ruining the mood. "And I haven't slept with anyone but you in over a year."

Arthur shot him a surprised glance, then grinned widely and tossed the condoms back in his bag. "Ditto," he replied, with a remarkable lack of romance that Eames didn't mind in the slightest. Sex was not the time for romance, in his opinion. At least not when he and Arthur had been screwing for about a year now.

Besides, it was romantic enough to hear that Arthur had been faithful to him the same way he had been to Arthur. It wasn't anything Eames had been expecting, but he wasn't really surprised by it either. It filled him up with warmth, the knowledge pleasant and pleasing. And he didn't doubt for a moment that Arthur was telling him the truth. It was nice to have someone in his life that he could trust completely and without reservations.

Arthur joined him on the bed, the mattress dipping and rolling Eames conveniently into the heat and solid muscle of his lover's lean body. He wrapped his arms around Arthur's shoulders and upper back, tugging him down until they were pressed together chest to chest, hips to hips, legs entwined and their mouths sliding against each other in a warm kiss. 

They traded lazy, soft sweeps of their tongues, and Eames palmed his way down the tight muscles of Arthur's back to the even tighter muscles of his buttocks. 

Eames was in love with Arthur, it was true, and he'd even confessed as much to the man himself, but he was also more than a little in love with Arthur's arse. Always had been, even before he knew he was in love with Arthur, and he suspected he always would be. It wasn't some passing fancy or short-lived affair. Arthur had an arse that was absolutely perfect. Physically, there wasn't much about Arthur that Eames could find fault with, but his rear end was something else entirely, something exquisite.

And it seemed far too long since Eames had gotten his hands on it. For all Eames occasionally teased Arthur by calling him a tight-arse, that was just about his favourite part of Arthur's body. Well, perhaps aside from his lovely prick. And, of course, that was only his _body_ ; Eames wasn't counting Arthur's gorgeous face, his adorable dimples, and his sparking personality.... Eames was only being slightly sarcastic with that last thought.

Most people, the ones who only worked with him in a professional capacity, found Arthur to be sharp, focused, polite, and rather uninteresting. But Eames knew better, had been allowed to see otherwise, and he was looking forward to finding out even more about the man he loved once they were in Arthur's home, taking that break Arthur had mentioned. It sounded heavenly, and it sounded better than anything Eames deserved. Of course, he'd been through a lot recently, so maybe he was due a little undiluted happiness. Either way, he was grabbing at it with both hands and not letting go.

"Ah-ah," Arthur lifted his lips away from Eames' to husk, as Eames palmed his arse with a demanding touch. "None of that, now. I'm going to be taking care of you."

"I'm not an invalid," Eames had to protest, even though the bruised side of his face had started to throb with all the increased activity and the flush warming his cheeks. He wasn't one hundred percent, it was true, but he didn't need to be treated as though he was fragile or in any way unable to hold his own.

"I never said you were," Arthur replied mildly, rolling Eames onto his back, resting most of his weight on his elbows, but their groins pressed close together. He kissed Eames lower lip lightly and smiled. "I'm just indicating my intention to top right now."

"Oh." Eames couldn't help grinning back. "Well, carry on then." He gave Arthur's fine arse a quick squeeze in encouragement.

Arthur let out a sound dangerously close to a snicker and bent to press his soft lips against the line of Eames' neck, licking and nipping lightly at the pulse pounding there. Eames tipped his head back into the pillow, and he could feel Arthur shifting as he reached for the lube that he'd momentarily set aside. They were well and beyond the need for extended foreplay at this point in their relationship, and Eames was more than fine with that. 

Not to say that Eames wasn't planning on taking his time teasing and tormenting Arthur in all the best ways once they were safely settled in Arthur's home -- he wondered whether it was a house, a flat, or something else -- and once he was recovered from the banging about that Tailor had given him. He strongly suspected that Arthur had similar plans as well. But here, in Peter's guest room, Eames didn't feel the need to stretch this out. He wanted Arthur inside him, soonest, and he hoped that Arthur wanted the same.

At any rate, it counted as foreplay, didn't it, when Arthur took his time slicking Eames up, stretching him with one finger, then two, then three.... All the while pressing kisses to Eames mouth, to his chin, to his jawline, his neck, his collarbones, and bending with agile grace to mouth and lick at his nipples in a knowledgeable, proprietary way that sent shivers of heat and sparking sensation through the entirety of Eames' body.

"Later," Arthur promised breathlessly, the word breaking hot and moist against the delicate skin just under Eames' jaw, where Arthur was determinedly sucking a hickey that Eames couldn't hope to hide from the world in general, or from Peter and Ariadne specifically... not that he intended to try. "Later I intend to take my time and make you squirm."

Eames chuckled, pleased to have surmised correctly, that Arthur had the same plans for the future that he had. "You've got me squirming now," he gasped, clutching at Arthur's shoulders and writhing on the mattress, not sure which was more a focal point; the slight sting of Arthur's possessive mark on his neck, or the fingers pulsing in and out of his arse. Not that it really mattered, and Eames was just fortunate that Arthur was agile and adept enough to stimulate him in both ways at once.

Arthur nipped at the bony line of Eames' collarbone then reared back, drawing a bereft sound of discontent and the scrabbling of his blunt nails against the muscles of his upper back from Eames. Never mind that Eames well knew it was for the better and in advancement of their fucking for Arthur to have the space to slick his jutting hard-on; it was almost like a physical shock to lose all that blanketing warmth, the heat of Arthur's body and the tight muscles pressed against his own.

"Relax," Arthur soothed, taking a moment to clasp and stroke Eames' straining prick with a well-lubricated hand, despite the fact that it was Arthur who would be doing the fucking. Not that Eames was about to complain, as he arched into the touch, letting a low groan grind its way out of his chest and into the air between them.

"Not making that particularly easy for me," Eames replied, gasping for breath, his hips moving against the mattress as Arthur rubbed him briskly, not holding tightly enough to offer any real relief, but sending waves of intense pleasure breaking over Eames' body. "Ah, fuck."

"In a moment," Arthur purred, and he sounded remarkably calm about the whole thing, for someone whose cock was just as hard and eager as Eames' was. Eames knew Arthur well enough by now, though, to read the stress in his voice, and he certainly couldn't mistake the lust darkening those beautiful brown eyes. 

Eames had some sort of snappy comeback to that, he knew he did. But words escaped him, blown out of his mind and exploding in a harsh gasp for breath as Arthur bent and licked at the exposed head of Eames' cock. 

Before he'd quite recovered from that, Arthur was moved upward again, still smoothly sliding his hand up and down the shaft of Eames' prick as he kissed the tense muscles between Eames' groin and his navel.

"A-Arthur," Eames managed to grind out, and he meant _hurry_ , _fuck me_ , _stop teasing_ all at the same time. And Arthur, being the wonder that he was, understood all that and more, as he released Eames' leaking cock and hooked his legs up onto his elbows, the hot, blunt head of his own erection pressing against Eames' well lubed arsehole.

He took a moment to rub it there, sending frissons of anticipation and tingling pleasure breaking all over Eames' body, robbing him of coherency or even the ability to _breathe_ , and Eames reached up, grabbing at Arthur's shoulders, trying to pull him in closer, wanting to get that thick, hard cock inside of him _now_.

Fortunately for the sake of Eames' sanity, Arthur couldn't tease him for long without teasing himself as well, and he surely wanted this as much as Eames' did, possibly more.

They'd never fucked without a condom before, and Eames was looking forward to having Arthur in him, spilling his spunk without restraint, and he could only imagine that it was going to be even more amazing for Arthur to feel everything without the encasing latex coming between them. It would make clean-up more difficult, but right now, in the heat of the moment, Eames didn't care about that, and he actually looked forward to it. He didn't want things to be easy or clean between them. He wanted sloppiness, he wanted unfettered sharing, he wanted Arthur to mark Eames as his, and he wanted to do the same in reverse, make Arthur his own in every way....

And somewhere in the back of his mind Eames knew that he was thinking in terms of emotion as well as sex, but then Arthur was pressing in through the tight ring of muscle and sliding inside Eames with one long, smooth thrust, and everything just kind of flew away in the bursting of intense pleasure that lit up his every nerve ending and exploded in the centre of his brain.

"F-fuck!" Eames managed to grind out, bowing up into the penetration, clinging to Arthur as best he could while physical sensation overwhelmed his functioning mind and rendered him a being of pure sexual reaction. 

He could hear Arthur panting above him, could feel one of Arthur's lean thighs wedging under his flank as he maneuvered for the best angle from which to begin pounding Eames' arse in earnest, and he knew that he ought to be helping the man out, holding up his own legs, but all he could do was grip Arthur's shoulders and shake in his embrace as Arthur fucked him, hard and fast.

It had been a while and he was going to be sore afterward, he was sure, but Eames didn't care as Arthur took him apart from the inside and put him back together with nothing but the pulsing of his hard prick inside Eames' arse. 

Arthur didn't last long, and Eames wasn't sure whether it was because it had been weeks, because of the lack of a condom, because of their exchanged declarations of love, or maybe a little of all three. He didn't really care the cause, he just held Arthur as close as he could in their awkward position, and watched avidly as Arthur shook to pieces above him, his brow furrowing, eyes closed, his mouth open and gasping as his orgasm ripped through him.

Eames didn't even have time to be envious, as Arthur recovered quickly and reached down, his throbbing prick still hard and twitching inside Eames' arse, wrapping his hand around Eames' own erection again and giving it several brisk strokes. That was all it took to have Eames spilling over Arthur's knuckles and his own belly, and only when Arthur had milked out every last drop, drawn every last quavering moan from Eames, only then did he give Eames' sensitive cock one last affectionate squeeze and then very carefully removed his own softening cock from Eames' clenching arse.

Eames felt the loss acutely, but Arthur made up for it as he tugged the covers over both of them, pulling Eames into his arms without seeming to mind the spunk on his belly, and tucked Eames against him in the heat and intimacy of their close-pressed bodies under the bedcovers. There was also the knowledge that Arthur had come inside Eames, even though Eames didn't really feel much more than the usual residual dampness of leftover lube.... It was more about the _knowing_ than the feeling, however.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured, kissing Eames softly but soundly. 

"Shouldn't I be saying that to you?" Eames queried, yawning. He rather thought his bruised and cut face was going to begin hurting as the endorphins began to wear off, but they hadn't yet, and he felt as though he was glowing with warmth and repletion in every cell, every centimeter of his body both satisfied and radiating pleasure. "That was one hell of a fuck."

Arthur chuckled, the sound vibrating in his chest. "I meant for forgiving me," he clarified. 

"Mm." Eames arched into Arthur, wishing that he could purr like a cat as Arthur's fingers sank into his hair, running through the strands in a soothing manner. "Just do me a favour and forgive yourself, love," he requested. "There's really no reason for further guilt. I swear to you."

"I think..." Arthur was silent for a moment, still petting Eames' scalp, staying away from the banged up parts of his face but holding him close. "It might just be the afterglow talking, but I think I get that now. Just... just try to be patient with me if I have a little trouble with it once the sex has worn off, okay?"

"Heh," Eames couldn't help grinning crookedly. "If that's your way of letting me know I need to keep you sexed up on a near constant basis from here on out...."

Arthur laughed, now, and Eames watched his dimples flashing with a feeling of deep contentment and unfettered affection. He had the right to look, he had the right to love. He'd earned all that and more, and every moment of pain and fear he'd been through had been worthwhile.

"Well, I can't argue with that," Arthur murmured, kissing him again, and his smile was fading, but he was heavy-lidded and contented, and this was one of Eames' favourite ways of seeing him. 

Eames felt about the same himself, and it didn't matter that they'd only recently woken up, or that it was mid-afternoon, or that they were both smeared in lube and come... Eames suspected that they were both about to drift off to sleep in one another's arms, and what better place could there be?

Peter's sheets were definitely going to need laundering, Eames thought with a smug smirk as he nestled into Arthur's arms, ignoring the slight discomfort of his bruised cheek, the pull of sharper pain where Tailor had cut him, because everything was worth getting closer to Arthur, soaking in his body heat, feeling his arms wrapped strong and sheltering around Eames, and sharing the knowledge that they loved each other and there was no longer anything that could come between them.

When they roused, Eames thought sleepily, they would bathe, then he would deal with the bed linens while Arthur got them plane tickets. And then they would head for home....

Home. Eames hadn't had a home in far too long. He was achingly curious about the domicile Arthur called "home" but he knew that even after they'd both gotten settled there, even after Eames was completely familiar and comfortable there, it still wouldn't be home for him.

No, home was where he was right now. In the circle of Arthur's arms and in Arthur's heart. Eames was home here, home now, and he wasn't going to give this up for anything. 

He loved Arthur and Arthur loved him, and that was really all that mattered. Eames had never thought that he'd find someone to love, someone he could trust with his heart, but now here he was, and he didn't intend to give it up for anything.

And so he wouldn't. Arthur was his and he was Arthur's and that was all that they needed, ever.

After a long and wearying journey, Eames had finally come home. And it was better than he could have dreamed.

***

"So when do you think it'll be safe to go back?" Ariadne asked, fussing with the delicate silk scarf she'd expertly draped around her neck. She was wearing clothing she had chosen for herself now, and she was very clearly a young woman still in university, but one who was confident and tidy and who knew who she was beyond any shadow of a doubt.

Peter smiled down at her. She really was a delightful young thing; he could see why Eames enjoyed her company. There was obviously only one person for Eames, though, and that was Arthur. Which was as it should be, and Peter suspected Ariadne had known this before Eames himself had.

"We can probably head back now," Peter said, giving a little shrug and deliberately shortening his stride as he turned them toward the car. It had been a long time since he'd had to do so, but the habit came back to him easily enough. "If they fought, they're probably done. If they made up... well, presumably they'd have moved it to the guest room."

Ariadne let out a sound suspiciously like a snicker.

"Of course, you know Arthur better than I do," Peter added. "I used to know Eames, but he's changed with the passage of time. So I'd say that in this case your guess might well be _better_ than mine."

Ariadne nodded, her expression thoughtful. "If they can just work things out, they'll be fine," she said. "Better than fine. They belong together and by this point they'd both better realize it. If not, I may need to bust some heads."

"You American's and your appalling tendency to use violence as a first resort," Peter said lightly, unlocking the car and ushering Ariadne into the passenger seat.

"I'm Canadian," Ariadne protested, giving him a mock scowl, once he'd circled the vehicle and opened his door.

Peter grinned crookedly, sliding behind the steering wheel. "That is still part of the Americas," he pointed out reasonably. 

"Are you saying that they don't deserve a good knock to the head if they still haven't figured themselves out?" Ariadne challenged, rather than arguing with him. He was right, after all, so she could hardly argue.

"I'd say Eames took a sound enough knock to his head last night," Peter said mildly, and Ariadne winced, even though he hadn't said it in order to make her feel bad, had merely been stating a fact. "And I've a feeling they're both ready to work things out. I'm mainly concerned with the state of the linens in my guest room."

Ariadne went a bit pink, he could see out of the corner of his eye as he started the engine. "Sheets can be washed," she said primly, but she was grinning now so she must be as much amused as embarrassed. 

Peter smirked. She was right, and he did hope that Eames and his Arthur had gotten things sorted between them. 

"They're really good together," Ariadne said as Peter turned the car toward home. He nodded, because he could see that she was right. "They've both been messing things up lately.... Well, Arthur more than Eames. But hopefully by now they've come to realize that they're in love. Eames actually told me at one point that they _weren't_ in a relationship, can you believe that?"

Peter snorted. "Believe that he said it? Yes."

Ariadne sighed. "Men." Then, before Peter could chide her for disparaging an entire gender due to the foolishness of two of its members, she continued. "For two guys who spend so much time manipulating other people's minds and digging up deeply hidden secrets, they have a lot of trouble realizing what's going on in their own heads."

"Do you always know your own mind?" Peter queried, in actual curiosity, not to be a smart-arse. 

Ariadne pursed her lips, gave him a mildly suspicious look -- probably checking him for sarcasm, possibly doubting his motive in asking -- then replied, "I like to think so, yes."

Peter sent her a quick smile, even though he made sure to keep his eyes on the road. "How would you feel about dinner out, then?"

Ariadne blinked, then raised one elegant dark brow. "Only dinner?"

"Well, and possibly dessert, if we feel like it. Just a chance to get to know one another," Peter said smoothly. "Before you go back to Paris."

"Arthur and Eames will miss us," Ariadne said thoughtfully, but she didn't sound overly concerned by this notion.

"I heartily doubt that," Peter replied, with complete honesty. "And I can text Eames' mobile if you're worried."

"Dinner sounds good," Ariadne said, and to her credit there was no hesitation in her voice. She turned to him and smiled. "It'll be better than sitting there watching Arthur and Eames make eyes at each other across the table, right?"

"That was part of my reason for asking," Peter admitted. "Though not, of course, the only one."

Ariadne smiled more widely and settled back into her seat. She was still a little pink, but it suited her sweetly, as well as matching the red of her new sweater and the delicate pastels of her scarf. Peter was more glad than ever to have had a hand in rescuing her from Tailor. Such fragile beauty shouldn't be allowed to be damaged. Especially by a ruthless bastard who had seen her only as a tool and not as a vital, fascinating personality.

"Yeah," Ariadne said, still smiling. "Yeah, let's do dinner out."

And so that was what they did. And it went... well, it went remarkably well, actually. Not that Peter found this surprising in the slightest.

Because, like Ariadne, he too knew his own mind.

***

Arthur had always trusted too easily, except for the one time it had really mattered, the one time he really _ought_ to have trusted. But that was past, he had learned better, and he'd been forgiven. And someday he would forgive himself.

It was amusing, then, to see how mistrusting Eames could be when he received a text from Peter, stating that the man was treating Ariadne to dinner out as well as lunch.

"He's your friend," Arthur couldn't help pointing out, as Eames fretted and got dressed, half inclined to go out and _find_ their errant host and his undoubtedly perfectly willing captive. "You know him."

"Which is why I'm concerned," Eames growled, buttoning his borrowed shirt with fingers that were quick and nimble once more. Arthur was forced to admit that Eames might well look better in Arthur's clothing than he did himself. Or maybe he was just prejudiced in Eames' favor. Either way, it was entirely too tempting, the desire to strip the clothing off of Eames, even though the man had just gotten dressed and just before that they'd had sex in a shared shower.

"Is he likely to molest or assault her?" Arthur asked, raising his brows, not really meaning the question. As though Eames would be friends with anyone of that nature.

"What?" Eames was as incredulous as Arthur had expected he would be. "No! No, no, he's just.... He'll be _charming_." Eames made this scathing statement sound as though it was a criminal act; one that he disapproved of. "He does charming very well."

Arthur couldn't help grinning. "You do charming very well yourself, Eames," he pointed out. Then he shrugged. "I think Ariadne can handle it. Are you afraid she'll decide to stay in London and have his babies instead of returning to school in Paris?"

"No..." Eames rumbled, in a sheepish manner that indicated that something along those lines might well have crossed his mind, no matter how completely ludicrous the idea was.

"Admit it," Arthur commanded, reeling Eames in and brushing a light kiss against his full, pouty lips. "You just don't like sharing your things."

Eames opened his mouth, probably to say something in protest, and Arthur took advantage, kissing him deeply, tangling their tongues together. He was actually quite pleased that they would have Peter's house to themselves a little longer. Their flight didn't leave for five hours, and that would give them time to eat and then hopefully to have sex again before they had to pack and say goodbye. 

That was, if Peter and Ariadne came back in time to say goodbye. Otherwise, Arthur intended to have Eames text Peter their farewell and have him pass it along to Ariadne, whose phone was back in Paris, and then they could be on their way without any hesitation.

Arthur had no regrets or misgivings over this plan. Ariadne was a grown woman who could take care of herself, and Arthur felt the need to get Eames in his home and in his exclusive company as quickly as possible. 

He didn't like sharing his things either, and Eames definitely belonged to him now.

Of course, that went both ways, and Arthur wouldn't have wished it to be otherwise. If Eames couldn't claim Arthur the way Arthur claimed Eames, well, that would hardly be fair.

"What are you thinking about so hard?" Eames asked, tilting his head, his lips red and pressure-bruised. He seemed to have forgotten their previous conversation, and Arthur was fine with that. The last thing he wanted to do right now was quarrel over Ariadne. Especially when she wouldn't even appreciate their concern.

"Sex," Arthur replied succinctly. It might not be one hundred percent accurate, but it wasn't inaccurate.... And watching Eames lick plump lips that were already damp with their mingled saliva made sure that it absolutely wasn't a lie.

"We should have dinner first," Eames chided, but he looked contemplative at the same time his lips curled in a broad smirk.

"Probably," Arthur replied, shrugging into his own shirt and buttoning it quickly. "Or at least wait until our hair has dried."

Eames' smirk widened and he chuckled. He still looked like a mess, purple bruises mottling one side of his face and a painful-looking cut marring the other side, but he was the most beautiful sight Arthur had ever seen. 

Giving in to temptation, Arthur reached out and cupped Eames' jaw, fingers tracing over the hickey he had sucked into the soft flesh below it, then he slid his palm around to the nape of Eames' neck, tugging him close and kissing the amused curve off of his lips, leaving them soft and parted, as Eames gasped for breath.

"Eames," he breathed, and he meant everything in that one exhalation. _Thank you for suffering torture in order to keep me safe, thank you for forgiving me for betraying your trust and for not trusting you when I should have, thank you for being mine the same way I am yours, thank you for agreeing to come home with me...._

"Arthur," Eames sighed in response, and in his soft tone Arthur heard everything he ever could have wanted and never would have thought he'd get. Eames' hand slid confidently around the back of Arthur's neck, thumb tracing over his cheekbone, and he leaned in to kiss Arthur again. Sweet and gentle, but hungry, always hungry.

Arthur could have said "I love you" again, but Eames already knew. He could have blurted out the thanks that swelled so large in his mind and heart. He almost wanted to apologize again, but Eames had already forgiven him and was only waiting for him to forgive himself. Everything he might have said had already been said, and Eames' soft kiss communicated it all, all over again, in return.

So what Arthur actually said was, "Let's go and make dinner."

And Eames smiled at him, good eye crinkling, face alight. "Yes," he agreed, and with a last press of his lips against one of Arthur's dimples, he took Arthur's hand and led the way.

Arthur went with him, and they walked side by side. Because they had both promised together and they had both promised forever. And that was the way it was going to be.

Forever.

[end]


End file.
